UNIVERSITY  Of 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


.M 


RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 


CHARLES   DICKENS  AT  SIX-AND-TWENTY. 
(After  Madise.) 


RAMBLES    WITH    AN 
AMERICAN 


BY 

CHRISTIAN  TEARLE 

AUTHOR  OF   "  HOLBORN   HILL,"   "  THE  VICE-CHANCELLOR'S  WARD,"  ETC. 


WITH  TWENTY-ONE  ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW   YORK 

DUFFIELD   &   COMPANY 
1910 


TO 

J.  NORTON  DICKONS 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE 

SINCE  the  first  of  these  Rambles  was  written 
changes  have  taken  place  as  regards  both  places 
described  and  persons  referred  to.  These,  how- 
ever, are  of  no  great  importance,  and  I  have 
thought  it  better  not  to  attempt  to  bring  the 

text  up  to  date. 

C.  T. 

January,  1910. 


CONTENTS 


CHAP.  PACK 

I.  WITH  DICKENS  IN  HATTON  GARDEN  1 

POSTSCRIPT — " The  Queen  must  have  her  will"  14 

II.  WITH  DICKENS  TO  THE  MARSHALSEA                     -  16 

III.  THE  BANKSIDE  VISITED                                  -  34 

IV.  THE  BANKSIDE  REVISITED     -  48 

POSTSCRIPT — Shakespeare  in  the  Water  Meadows  70 
V.  THE  BIRTH-HOUSE  AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON  -        -  71 
VI.  THE  HATHAWAY  HOUSE  AT  SHOTTERY  -                 -  81 
VII.  MR.    FAIRFIELD    LEARNS    "  ALL    ABOUT    SHAKE- 
SPEARE "                                                            -  96 
POSTSCRIPT — "  He  was  Droonk,  y'e  knoo  ! "  -        -  100 
VIII.  SHAKESPEARE'S  CHURCH                                  -        -  101 
IX.  WITH  GOLDSMITH  IN  GREEN  ARBOUR  COURT        -  113 
POSTSCRIPT — The  Bells  of  St.  Andrew's,  Holborn  127 
X.  FOLLOWING  IN  GOLDSMITH'S  FOOTSTEPS         -        -  129 
POSTSCRIPT — Poor  Little  Houses  of  Chancerie    -  146 
XI.  WE  BEGIN  TO  RAMBLE  ABOUT  EDINBURGH   -        -  149 
XII.  MR.  FAIRFIELD  AND  "  BONNIE  DUNDEE  "    -        -  160 

XIII.  MR.  FAIRFIELD  WIELDS  THE  VERNACULAR    -        -  174 

XIV.  WE  SEE  THE  MANUSCRIPT  OF  "WAVERLEY"        -  186 
XV.  MR.     FAIRFIELD     MORALISES     IN     GREYFRIARS 

CHURCHYARD                                                    -  196 

XVI.  WE  CROSS  MELROSE  BRIDGE  AND  CLIMB  EILDON-  204 

XVII.  MELROSE  ABBEY  AND  SIR  WALTER'S  GRAVE         -  215 

XVIII.  WE  CLIMB  SMAILHOLM  TOWER     -                 -        -  225 

XIX.  WE   RAMBLE  ABOUT    THE    RHYMER'S  GLEN   AND 

FIND  THE  EILDON  STONE        ....  236 

XX.  BY  THE  TOLL-HOUSE  ON  THE  SELKIRK  ROAD       -  246 
6                                        iz 


x  CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PACE 

XXI.  ABBOTSFORD  HOUSE     -  261 

POSTSCRIPT— "  Sir  Walter  Scott— for  Scotland  "  283 
XXII.  WB  SBB  SHAKESPEARE'S  WILL,  AND  DAWDLE  ABOUT 

LINCOLN'S  INN       -  -  -        .  -  264 

POSTSCRIPT — The  Ghosts  of  Lincoln's  Inn          -  279 

XXIII.  MR.    FAIRFIELD    TURNS    RECORD-HUNTER,    AND 

STUDIES  "SWINBURNE  ON  WILLS"  284 

POSTSCRIPT — Epitome  of  Shakespeare's  Will     -  301 

XXIV.  THE  BULL  HOTEL,  ROCHESTER  :  I  AM  INVITED  TO 

STUDY  "EDWIN  DROOD"  -  303 

XXV.  WE  RAMBLE  TO  GADSHILL  313 
XXVI.  IN  COBHAM  PARK  WE  LEARN  SOMETHING  ABOUT 

CHARLES  DICKENS  327 
XXVII.  WE  VISIT  MINOR  CANON  Row,  AND  RAMBLE  TO 

COOLING  -  334 

POSTSCRIPT — A  Score  o'  Years  Ago    -  361 

XXVIII.  COBHAM  WOODS  AND  EASTGATE  HOUSE  -  352 

POSTSCRIPT— The  Old  English  Lyrists  366 

XXIX.  WE  INSPECT  THE  BUFF- JERKINS  AND  MATCHLOCKS 

IN  ROCHESTER  CATHEDRAL      -  -  367 

ENVOY — The  Rochester  Coach  -  376 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

CHARLES  DICKENS  AT  SIX-AND-TWENTY  Frontispiece 

After  Maclise. 

TO  FACE  PACK 
GRAY'S  INN  SQUARE 2 

From  Herbert's  "  Antiquities  of  the  Inns  of  Court,"  1804. 

HATTON  GARDEN  DOOBWAYS  7 

From  photographs  by  T.  W.  Tyrrell. 

ST.  GEORGE'S,  SOUTHWARK,  AND  THE  MARSHALSEA  GATE  32 

From  Hughson's  "London,"  1807. 

(1)  THE  COTTAGES,  COLLINGWOOD  STREET,  BLACKFRIARS      -      51 

From  a  photograph  by  T.  W.  Tyrrell. 

(2)  THE  OLD  KING'S  ARMS,  SURREY  Row,  BLACKFRIARS     -      51 

From  a  photograph  by  T.  W.  Tyrrell. 

THE  ORIGINAL  GLOBE  THEATRE,  BANKSIDE  -  57 

From  "  Londina  Illustrata". 

THE  BANKSIDE  IN  QUEEN  ELIZABETH'S  REIGN  70 

From  "  Londina  Illustrata  ". 

"  ANNE  HATHA WAY'S  COTTAGE  "  84 

From  a  photograph  by  T.  W.  Tyrrell. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE  98 

From  the  Fir^t  Folio. 

THE  CHURCH,  STRATFORD-ON-AVON      -  -     112 

From  a  photograph  by  T.  W.  Tyrrell. 

THE  FLEET  DITCH  OF  THE  "  DUNCIAD  "  138 

From  Warburton's  "  Pope,"  1751. 
zi 


xii         LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

TO  FAC*   PAOR 

THE  OLD  WEST  Bow,  EDINBURGH  .        -    170 

From  a  drawing  by  Cattermole. 

EDINBURGH  CASTLE  FROM  THE  GRKYFRIARS  -  -     196 

From  a  drawing  by  Cattermole. 

THE  LIBRARY,  ABBOTSFORD  -  -     253 

From  a  drawing  by  Allan. 

LINCOLN'S  INN  HALL,  CHAPEL,  AND  GATEWAY      -  -    277 

From  Herbert's  "Antiquities  of  the  Inns  of  Court,"  1804. 

EASTOATB  HOUSE,  ROCHESTER       -  -    306 

From  a  photograph  by  T.  W.  Tyrrell. 

THE  PRIORY  GATE  AND  THE  BACK  OF  MINOR  CANON  Row  -    336 

From  a  photograph  by  T.  W.  Tyrrell. 


RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

CHAPTEK  I 
WITH  DICKENS  IN  HATTON  GARDEN 

MY  client,  Mr.  James  C.  Fairfield,  of  Chicago,  U.S.A., 
rose  to  go ;  but  his  eye  fell  upon  Gray's  Inn  Hall,  and 
he  stood  gazing  at  it  out  of  my  office  window,  as  if  loth 
to  depart. 

He  had  made  his  appearance  in  Gray's  Inn  a  few 
weeks  earlier,  to  consult  me  respecting  an  unpaid  letter 
of  credit.  The  amount  in  question  was  considerable, 
and  from  the  beginning  I  had  felt  sure  that  he  was  a 
person  of  position  in  his  own  country.  The  letter  of 
introduction  which  he  had  brought  was  written  by  an 
officer  of  the  American  embassy,  and  among  the  docu- 
ments in  the  case  was  a  note  from  the  Secretary,  which 
began,  "  My  dear  Fairfield  ". 

There  was  not  much  of  the  typical  American  about 
my  client;  but  I  fancied  that  he  showed  a  slight  re- 
luctance to  disclose  his  second  Christian  name,  and  it 
must  be  admitted,  that  he  pronounced  the  word  Chicago 
in  a  manner  which  defied  the  imitative  powers  of  an 
Englishman.  His  appearance  was  all  in  his  favour.  His 
countenance,  though  remotely  suggestive  of  the  Bed 
Indian  type,  was  refined  and  gracious;  his  more  than 
fifty  winters  had  dried  him  up  rather  than  aged  him, 
and  his  tall  form  was  spare  and  willowy. 

To-day  he  had  asked  for  my  bill  of  costs,  and  after 

glancing  at  the  total  he  had  paid  the  amount.     At  the 

same  time  he  had  hinted  with  perfect  taste  and  evident 

sincerity,  that  he  feared  he  had  been  more  trouble  than 

1 


2    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

he  was  worth.  Then  he  had  settled  himself  down  to 
read  the  items.  They  certainly  were  rather  wordy ;  and 
as  he  waded  through  them,  I  fancied  from  the  expression 
of  his  face  that  he  was  still  a  little  sorry  that  I  had 
gone  through  so  much  to  get  so  little.  As  he  continued 
to  read,  he  now  and  again  made  a  pause,  as  if  dwelling 
upon  a  word  or  phrase ;  and  at  length,  he  said,  more  to 
himself  than  to  me :  "  The  English  law-language  is  very 
suggestive;  it  reminds  one  of  the  Sonnets  ".  I  knew 
that  Peacock,  my  factotum,  was  an  old-fashioned  drafts- 
man, who  loved  to  use  words  and  phrases  rarely  met  with 
nowadays  except  in  deeds ;  but  I  felt  that  though  these 
might  bear  a  certain  Elizabethan  smack,  a  client  who 
could  trace  a  connexion  between  old  Peacock's  entries 
and  the  Sonnets  of  Shakespeare  was  no  ordinary  person. 

So  it  was  not  without  interest  that  I  watched  Mr. 
Fairfield  gazing  across  the  placid  square  upon  the  old 
hall  of  Gray's  Inn.  Nor  was  it  without  sympathy ;  for 
the  lack-lustre  eye  with  which  most  of  my  visitors  re- 
garded that  prospect  had  often  made  me  wonder  a  little. 

"Your  Hall  is  more  than  three  hundred  years  old  ; 
isn't  it?"  he  asked  at  length. 

"  It's  more  than  that  since  it  was  '  re-edified  ' — what- 
ever that  may  mean." 

"  Folks  say  that  Shakespeare  once  acted  in  it,"  he 
continued. 

"  Yes  !  They  say  he  helped  to  play  the  '  Comedy  of 
Errors '  there,  and  certainly  Queen  Elizabeth  has  been 
there,  to  say  nothing  of  Bacon,  and  scores  and  scores  of 
other  eminent  persons.  And  it  has  been  used  as  a 
Court  of  Justice.  An  old  clerk  of  mine  remembered 
Lord  Chancellor  Eldon  sitting  in  that  hall." 

Mr.  James  C.  Fairfield  drew  a  long  breath,  and  there 
was  an  unmistakably  wistful  look  in  his  eyes  as  he  con- 
tinued to  gaze  across  the  square. 

"  The  b'nes,  sir,  have  fallen  to  you  in  pleasant  places," 
he  said,  with  a  very  agreeable  smile;  "I  have  been 
wondering  why  Charles  Dickens  didn't  like  Gray's  Inn. 
He  called  it  one  of  the  most  depressing  institutions  in 
brick  and  mortar  known  to  the  children  of  men." 


DICKENS  IN  HATTON  GARDEN     3 

"  He  had  reason,"  I  answered  ;  "he  remembered  it 
as  a  place  of  servitude.  But  it  was  a  pity  he  kept  on 
hating  it  all  his  life." 

I  spoke  with  some  feeling,  for  the  Inn  holds  a  warm 
corner  in  my  heart,  and  the  unkind  things  said  about 
it  in  the  "  Uncommercial  Traveller  "  are  hard  to  bear. 

It  was  with  a  manifest  accession  of  interest  that  Mr. 
Fairfield  eyed  me  after  this,  and  it  was  with  a  shyness 
of  manner  quite  new  in  him  that  he  asked  if  I  had  ever 
seen  the  Hatton  Garden  police-court.  "I  know  it  has 
been  shut  up  for  many  years,"  he  explained,  "but  I 
want  to  find  it." 

I  had  heard  of  the  police-court  in  question,  but  I  had 
no  notion  of  its  whereabouts. 

"  The  truth  is,"  said  my  client,  with  a  sudden  effort, 
as  if  he  had  determined  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  things, 
"  some  of  us  in  Chicago  think  a  deal  of  Dickens.  I'm 
badly  bitten  myself,  and  I've  spent  a  lot  of  time  in  your 
city  here,  following  up  his  tracks.  I've  covered  most 
of  the  ground ;  but  I've  not  located  the  police-office 
where  Mr.  Fang  bullied  Oliver  Twist,  and  what's  more 
I  don't  know  anybody  who  has.  No  doubt  all  the  de- 
tail in  the  book  was  photographically  correct — trust 
Charles  Dickens  for  that ! — and  I  want  to  find  the  place 
if  it's  to  be  found.  But  I  daresay  your  clientele  doesn't 
bring  you  near  the  police-courts,"  he  added  with  a 
slight  bow. 

"  It  must  be  more  than  sixty  years  since  '  Oliver  Twist ' 
was  published,"  said  I. 

"  Dickens  wrote  it  in  1837.  He  actually  had  both 
that  and  'Pickwick'  in  hand  at  the  same  time,  and 
wasn't  even  a  week  in  advance  of  the  printer  with  either. 
Think  of  that,  sir !  It's  plain  from  Forster's  '  Life ' 
that  the  court  was  in  full  blast  then ;  for  he  tells  us 
Dickens  was  smuggled  into  the  place,  so  that  he  might 
study  Fang's  ways.  The  man's  name  was  really  Laing, 
and  Dickens's  description  led  the  authorities  to  take  an 
early  opportunity  of  showing  him  the  door." 

"  Let  us  go  and  find  the  place,"  said  I,  as  I  took  up 
my  hat. 


4    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

I  did  not  make  this  offer  entirely  in  my  client's  inter- 
est ;  for  if  a  man  should  speak  truly,  I  am  a  bit  of  a 
Dickensite  myself,  and  it  struck  me  almost  as  a  reproach 
that  though  for  many  years  I  had  practised  within  a 
stone's-throw  of  Hatton  Garden,  it  had  never  occurred 
to  me  to  ascertain  where  the  police-office  described  in 
"  Oliver  Twist  "  used  to  stand. 

Although  Mr.  James  C.  Fairfield  had  accepted  my  offer 
with  grave  politeness,  and  without  any  show  of  enthusi- 
asm, I  noticed  as  we  turned  out  of  the  Inn  into  Holborn 
that  a  gleam  was  in  his  eye,  and  I  felt  sure  that  with 
him  the  hunt  was  up,  and  that  any  trail,  however  faint, 
would  be  followed  to  the  death.  Before  starting,  I  had 
stipulated  that  I  should  be  allowed  to  conduct  the  chase 
in  my  own  way,  and  somewhat  to  my  companion's  sur- 
prise, I  headed  not  towards  Hatton  Garden,  but  in  the 
opposite  direction.  When,  however,  he  found  that  I  had 
conducted  him  to  the  library  of  the  Law  Society  in 
Chancery  Lane,  and  had  entrenched  myself  behind  a 
rampart  of  old  Law  Lists  and  Post  Office  Directories, 
his  doubts  vanished,  and  peering  over  my  shoulder,  he 
followed  my  quest  with  unmistakable  eagerness. 

It  was  not  long  before  we  found  something.  The 
Directories  did  not  begin  until  the  year  1840,  but  the 
Law  Lists  went  back  for  many  years  earlier.  I  began 
at  1836 ;  and  the  Law  List  for  that  year  showed  that 
there  was  then  a  Hatton  Garden  police-court  in  exist- 
ence, and  that  three  magistrates,  one  of  whom  was 
A.  S.  Laing,  Esq.,  were  attached  to  it ;  but  there  was 
no  information  as  to  its  exact  locality.  The  Law  Lists 
for  the  four  succeeding  years  were  no  more  explicit  on 
this  point,  though  they  showed  that  between  1836  and 
1838  A.  S.  Laing,  Esq.,  had  ceased  to  administer  justice 
in  Hatton  Garden.  This  greatly  excited  my  client. 

"  Dickens  had  smashed  him,  sure  enough,"  he  said 
joyfully. 

I  was  reluctant  to  give  up  the  Law  Lists,  for  as  I  had 
turned  over  the  pages,  my  eye  had  caught  many  names 
to  awaken  old  memories ;  but  my  companion  was  evi- 
dently so  anxious  to  push  on  with  the  search  that  I  was 


DICKENS  IN  HATTON  GARDEN      5 

constrained  to  put  them  aside  and  break  new  ground 
with  the  Directory  for  1840.  Here  we  drew  a  blank, 
for  though  the  police-court  was  mentioned  no  address 
was  given.  But  the  Directory  for  1841  made  amends 
for  all ;  no  sooner  had  I  turned  to  the  page  relating  to 
police-offices  than  my  client's  eye  travelled  over  it  with 
lightning  rapidity,  and  I  heard  in  my  ear  an  excited 
whisper,  "Number  54  Hatton  Garden  ". 

We  were  now  fairly  on  the  trail ;  but  notwithstanding 
Mr.  Fairfield's  manifest  impatience  I  ventured  before 
departing  to  make  a  hasty  reference  to  the  Directories 
for  the  next  two  or  three  years.  From  these  I  ascer- 
tained that  between  1841  and  1843  the  police-office  had 
been  removed  from  Hatton  Garden  to  Bagnigge  Wells 
Eoad,  and  had  changed  its  name  to  the  Clerkenwell 
police-court. 

Within  a  few  minutes  of  our  discovery  of  the  number 
of  the  house  we  were  on  our  way  eastward ;  and  the 
long,  thin  gentleman  in  the  closely  buttoned  frock-coat 
and  sharply  pointed  patent-leather  shoes  had  regained 
his  composure,  and  was  outwardly  as  calm  as  fate  and 
as  cold  as  charity. 

With  malice  aforethought,  I  led  him  down  Southamp- 
ton Buildings  and  through  Staple  Inn.  Here,  he  seemed 
on  familiar  ground,  and  as  he  drew  near  to  Number  10 
he  put  on  a  pince-nez  and  let  the  conversation  languish. 
When  we  reached  the  house,  his  face  lit  up,  and  fixing 
his  eyes  on  the  tablet  over  the  doorway,  which  bears  the 
inscription  "P.  J.  T.  1747,"  he  waved  a  greeting  to  it. 
But  he  did  not  stop,  nor  did  he  say  anything.  His 
thoughts  were  with  Mr.  Grewgious  and  the  other  char- 
acters in  "  Edwin  Drood,"  but  he  kept  his  .illusions  to 
himself.  I  honoured  his  reticence,  and  even  felt  it  a 
little  difficult  not  to  let  him  know  that  I,  too,  loved  the 
Master's  unfinished  book,  and  never  went  by  that  old 
house  without  a  mental  greeting. 

We  passed  under  the  gateway  of  Staple  Inn  into  the 
roar  of  Holborn,  and  made  our  way  towards  the  Circus. 
When  we  came  to  the  statue  of  Prince  Consort,  my  client 
made  it  plain  to  me  that  he  was  no  stranger  to  the  locality. 


6    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  There  are  many  of  the  original  houses  still  left," 
said  he,  indicating  Hatton  Garden  by  a  wave  of  his 
hand,  "  though  they  look  so  stout  one  can  hardly  believe 
they  are  more  than  two  hundred  years  old.  This  was 
the  garden  of  Ely  Place,  the  Bishop  of  Ely's  London 
house.  Queen  Elizabeth  made  him  lease  it  to  Christo- 
pher Hatton.  That  was  the  beginning  of  the  end ;  the 
builder  got  hold  of  it  in  1659.  John  Evelyn  saw  the 
foundations  being  laid.  He  said  they  were  designed  for 
a  little  town,  and  that  the  place  was  lately  an  ample 
garden." 

He  had  culled  these  fragments  of  topography  from 
a  little  sheaf  of  notes,  which  he  had  been  consulting 
as  he  went  along.  I  received  them  with  due  reverence, 
but  I  made  a  mental  note  to  give  him  a  Roland  for  his 
Oliver  before  I  had  done  with  him. 

Hatton  Garden  lay  before  us.  It  was  true  that  many 
of  the  houses  were  old,  but  some  of  them  had  been 
modernized  almost  out  of  recognition,  and  at  anything 
but  rare  intervals  an  unmistakably  new  building  showed 
itself.  The  shop-fronts,  which  had  altered  the  appear- 
ance of  so  many  of  the  original  ground-floors,  and  the 
trade  advertisements  which  met  the  eye  on  every  side, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  bustle  of  the  traffic,  made  the  street 
as  unlike  the  fashionable  thoroughfare  of  Evelyn's  day 
as  that  thoroughfare  was  unlike  the  "  ample  garden," 
which  he  remembered,  and  which  Shakespeare  knew. 1 

Mr.  Fairfield  was  deep  in  his  memoranda.  "The 
Dodger  and  Charley  Bates,"  said  he  reflectively,  "  picked 
old  Brownlow's  pocket  on  Clerkenwell  Green.  I  have 
identified  that  place ;  the  Clerkenwell  sessions-house 
stands  there.  The  police-office  was  quite  near  at  hand, 
and  this  points  to  its  being  some  distance  from  Hoi- 
born." 

I  admitted  the  justice  of  Mr.  Fairfield's  conclusion ; 
and  as  we  proceeded  along  the  east  side  of  the  street 

1  My  Lord  of  Ely,  when  I  was  last  in  Holborn, 
I  saw  good  strawberries  in  your  garden  there. 

("Richard  III,"  Act  iii,  Sc.  iv.) 


HATTON   GARDEN   DOORWAYS. 

NOTE.— Xo.  13  (See  top  left-hand  doorway  !)  was  "Perdita"  Robinson's  home 
during  the  first  years  of  her  married  life. 


DICKENS  IN  HATTON  GARDEN     7 

I  encouraged  him  by  pointing  out  that  the  numbering 
tended  to  confirm  it. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  exclaimed;  "the  numbers  begin  at 
this  end,  and  they  run  consecutively.  Fifty-four  must 
be  a  good  way  in  front  of  us." 

"  That  leads  to  Ely  Place,"  he  went  on,  as  he  pointed 
down  a  narrow  passage  on  our  right.  "  There's  a  tavern 
in  it  called  the  Mitre.  The  sign's  dated  1540,  but  I'm 
afraid  that's  a  legend.  Yes,  I'm  afraid  it's  only  a 
legend." 

He  said  this  with  a  mournful  gravity  that  was  posi- 
tively laughable ;  but  a  moment  later  he  had  resumed 
his  cheerfulness  and  was  pointing  out  to  me  that  Hatton 
Garden  still  retained  many  tokens  of  its  former  stateli- 
ness.  Some  of  the  elaborately  carved  and  fluted  door- 
ways to  which  he  drew  my  attention  would  have  made 
suitable  and  imposing  entrances  to  family  vaults ;  and 
here  and  there,  through  open  doors,  we  caught  glimpses 
of  tessellated  marble  pavements,  and  the  heavy,  carved 
balustrades  of  ancient  staircases. 

At  the  corner  of  Charles  Street  I  paused  to  administer 
my  topographical  tit-for-tat. 

"  That  tavern,"  said  I,  pointing  to  the  Globe  restaurant 
on  the  other  side  of  the  way,  "  is  not  without  historical 
associations.  When  Sir  George  Barclay  was  hatching 
his  plot  to  assassinate  William  HE,  that  house  was  one 
of  the  places  at  which  he  and  his  fellow-conspirators 
used  to  meet." 

My  client  regarded  the  structure  with  much  interest, 
and  proceeded  to  add  a  note  to  the  sheaf  of  memoranda 
which  fluttered  in  his  hand.  When,  however,  he  sought 
to  cross-examine  me  for  further  particulars  I  thought 
it  wise  to  confess  that  the  "  State  Trials"  was  my  sole 
authority,  and  that  I  could  add  nothing  to  what  I  had 
said,  and  could  not  even  declare  that  the  tavern  before 
us  was  the  actual  structure  in  existence  in  1696. 

"  I  suppose  you  wouldn't  care  to  drop  in  and  question 
the  landlord,"  hinted  my  companion,  with  some  diffi- 
dence; "no  doubt  he  knows  all  the  traditions  of  his 
house." 


8     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  I'm  afraid  I  haven't  time  this  afternoon,"  said  I,  not 
much  relishing  this  proposal 

Our  pace  quickened  as  we  continued  our  pilgrimage, but 
there  was  no  getting  Mr.  Fairfield  past  the  corner  of  Cross 
Street  until  he  had  examined  the  parochial  school-house. 

"  '  Established  in  1696,'  "  said  he,  reading  from  the 
inscription,  and  pausing  to  study  the  quaint  figures 
of  a  boy  and  girl  in  the  costume  of  that  day  which 
flank  each  of  the  two  entrances.  "  I  missed  this  place 
when  I  was  here  before,"  he  remarked,  as  he  added  a 
note  to  his  memoranda. 

This  done,  he  ran  his  eye  over  several  of  the  slips  of 
paper  in  his  hand,  and  then  took  a  long  survey  north, 
south,  east  and  west.  His  look  was  very  absent  as  he 
did  this.  His  next  proceeding  was  to  step  into  the 
roadway,  and  from  the  middle  of  it  to  renew  his  survey 
of  the  four  points  of  the  compass. 

"  Do  you  know  Bacon's  '  Essays '  ?  "  he  asked,  with 
some  shyness.  A  moment  earlier  he  had  turned  in  my 
direction,  and  had  given  something  of  a  start  at  finding 
me  at  his  elbow  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 

"  Yes,  it's  rather  a  favourite  book  of  mine." 

"I  was  trying  to  reconstruct  that  garden;  as  you 
know  the  '  Essays,'  perhaps  you  will  understand  what 
was  in  my  mind." 

He  said  this  with  a  half-smile,  but  he  was  evidently 
feeling  his  way,  and  was  ready  at  a  touch  to  shrink 
back  into  his  shell. 

"  Were  you  thinking  of  the  flowers  which  were  suited 
to  '  the  climate  of  London  '  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  That's  exactly  what  I  was  thinking  of.  Isn't  it  odd 
to  remember  that  almost  anything  could  be  grown  here 
in  Queen  Elizabeth's  time  ?  We  know  there  were  heaps 
of  roses,  for  the  lease  to  Hatton  stipulated  that  the 
bishop  should  have  twenty  bushels  every  year.  I  wish 
I  could  remember  more  of  that  essay  on  gardens.  I'm 
sure  Bacon  mentions  scores  of  London  flowers,  but  all 
I  can  call  to  mind  besides  roses  are  hollyhocks,  and 
lilies,  and  daffodils.  It's  pleasant  to  think  of  this  place 
as  a  real  garden ;  isn't  it  ?  " 


DICKENS  IN  HATTON  GARDEN     9 

Mr.  Fairfield  was  now  quite  at  his  ease,  and  he  had 
been  speaking  with  no  little  animation. 

"It's  pleasant  in  a  sense,"  I  admitted,  as  I  looked 
about  me,  "  but  isn't  it  a  little  melancholy,  too?" 

"  I  never  feel  like  that  in  London  :  I  hardly  know 
why.  Perhaps  it's  because  one  recognizes  that  if  the 
open  places  hadn't  been  built  over  hundreds  of  years 
ago,  the  London  that  we  know,  simply  wouldn't  exist." 

"  Was  the  bishop's  garden  a  big  place?  "  I  asked. 

"  It  stretched  as  far  as  Leather  Lane  on  the  west ; 
I  can't  make  up  my  mind  how  far  north  it  went,  but 
the  bishop's  land  ran  up  a  good  bit  farther  north  than 
where  we  are  now.  Hatton  got  fourteen  acres  besides 
the  garden  and  some  orchards,  and  the  bishop  didn't 
give  up  quite  all  the  land.  There  was  a  paddock  or 
orchard  north  of  the  chapel — he  kept  that.  But  leaving 
all  the  rest  out  of  account,  just  think  of  fourteen  acres 
of  open  ground  here !  What  a  view  there  must  have 
been  of  Hampstead,  and  Highgate,  and  Islington  !  I 
doubt  if  there  was  any  building  bigger  than  a  cottage 
between  here  and  Hampstead,  except  the  little  old  church 
of  St.  Pancras.  It's  still  standing  :  fancy  being  able  to 
see  it  from  here !  And  I  daresay  you  could  see  the  Tower 
and  nearly  all  the  City.  The  walls  were  still  there  in 
Hatton's  time,  and  Holbom  Hill  was  a  suburb  with  the 
Kiver  Fleet  running  through  a  hollow  between  it  and  the 
City  proper — the  hollow  that  was  bridged  by  the  Viaduct 
some  thirty  years  ago." 

"  We  haven't  found  that  police-court  yet,"  I  hinted, 
after  a  pause. 

"  True,  true !  we  must  be  getting  on  ;  your  time  is 
valuable,"  he  answered  penitently. 

Before  Cross  Street  was  many  paces  behind  us  he 
had  cleared  his  mind  of  the  London  of  Elizabeth, 
and  was  once  again  all  eagerness  to  find  the  police-office 
of  "Oliver  Twist,"  but  as  we  drew  near  the  northern 
end  of  Hatton  Garden,  and  the  numbers  were  nearly  ap- 
proaching the  fifties,  his  hopes  seemed  to  be  sinking 
low.  Whenever  we  passed  a  newly-built  house,  he  eyed 
it  mournfully,  but  with  something  of  an  air  of  resigna- 


10    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

tion,  and  when  we  came  on  Number  50,  and  found  it  to 
be  brand-new,  and  a  few  houses  ahead  we  saw  another 
undoubtedly  modern  building,  he  had  evidently  prepared 
himself  for  the  worst.  Even  I  was  conscious  of  a  slight 
feeling  of  apprehension — could  that  new  house  be  Num- 
ber 54  ?  Mr.  Fairfield  paused  at  Number  52,  really,  I 
think,  because  he  wished  to  postpone  for  a  moment  the 
realization  of  his  fears,  but  ostensibly  to  examine  the 
coat  of  arms  upon  the  pediment  of  the  doorway,  and  the 
smaller  shields  to  right  and  left  of  it. 

At  the  next  house  but  one  we  stopped,  and  a  sigh  of 
relief  burst  from  my  companion.  It  was  manifestly  a 
very  old  house,  and  under  the  spacious  double-fanlight 
over  the  entrance  were  the  figures  54.  It  was  a  sub- 
stantial dwelling  of  four  storeys,  each  of  which  except 
the  first  showed  a  line  of  three  windows,  warped  with 
age.  On  the  ground-floor  the  space  of  the  third  window 
was  taken  up  by  the  doorway.  The  door  stood  open, 
and  beyond  it  at  the  end  of  a  short  entrance  hall,  some- 
what poorly  panelled,  was  another  door,  crowned  with 
a  fanlight,  through  which  could  be  seen  part  of  an  old- 
fashioned  staircase.  The  house  was  divided  from  the 
pavement  by  a  railed  area  of  no  great  depth,  and  was 
apparently  in  the  occupation  of  a  commercial  firm. 

"It's  the  place,  sure  enough!"  said  Mr.  Fairfield 
breathlessly.  "  Let  us  step  just  inside  !  " 

The  hall  was  by  no  means  impressive ;  but  the  door- 
chain,  which  was  an  iron  cable  of  very  fair  thickness 
and  of  sufficient  length  to  extend  across  the  full  width 
of  the  entrance,  and  also  certain  evidences  which  the 
door  itself  presented  that  at  one  time  it  could  be  secured 
by  an  iron  bar,  spoke  eloquently  of  the  fact  that  in 
former  days  Hatton  Garden  had  for  its  immediate 
neighbour  a  district  seething  with  crime. 

"  I  want  to  trace  the  progress  of  events  just  as  they 
are  set  out  in  the  book,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield,  whose  usually 
placid  countenance  was  flushed  with  excitement.  "  Oli- 
ver was  brought  through  two  or  three  streets,  and  down 
a  place  called  Mutton  Hill,  when  he  was  led  beneath  a 
low  archway  and  up  a  dirty  court,  into  the  police-office, 


DICKENS  IN  HATTON  GARDEN     11 

by  the  back  way.  We've  got  to  find  that  back  way — and 
I  guess  it's  round  yonder." 

He  pointed  northward,  and  started  off  at  a  brisk  trot. 
Twenty  or  thirty  yards  brought  him  to  the  corner  of 
Hatton  Wall ;  and  he  turned  down  it  at  a  pace  that  re- 
called to  my  mind  poor  Oliver's  dash  for  freedom.  For- 
tunately, no  one  cried  "  Stop  thief!  "  after  the  American 
citizen,  as  he  disappeared  round  the  corner ;  his  shoes 
twinkling  in  the  sunshine,  and  his  ample  vestment 
blowing  out  behind  him. 

By  the  time  I,  too,  had  turned  the  corner  he  was 
thirty  or  forty  yards  ahead.  In  another  instant,  he  had 
come  to  a  sudden  stop,  and  regardless  of  appearances, 
was  waving  me  forward  with  his  hat.  When  I  got  up 
to  him,  I  found  that  he  was  standing  in  front  of  a  tavern, 
and  that  under  a  portion  of  the  premises,  there  ran  an 
archway,  giving  access  to  a  narrow  passage,  called  Hatton 
Yard,  which  led  to  the  backs  of  the  houses  in  Hatton 
Garden.  At  the  end  of  the  side-street  in  which  we  were 
standing,  and  only  a  few  yards  ahead  of  us,  ran  Great 
Saffron  Hill. 

We  were  both  through  the  archway  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye.  We  found  that  the  passage  into  which  it  led 
was  bordered  on  one  side  by  stables,  and  on  the  other 
side  by  certain  low  irregular  structures,  which  had  evid- 
ently been  built  in  recent  times  over  the  back-gardens 
of  the  houses  in  Hatton  Garden.  It  was  easy  to  see, 
that  when  the  street  was  a  residential  quarter  of  some 
pretension,  the  houses  were  provided  with  stabling  in 
the  rear,  and  that  the  passage  in  which  we  were  stand- 
ing gave  access  to  it.  The  place  was  decidedly  unlovely, 
and  my  companion's  face  was  very  downcast  as  we  ex- 
amined it ;  for,  though  it  was  easy  to  locate  with  toler- 
able accuracy  the  back  of  Number  54,  no  trace  of  an 
entrance  was  visible. 

"  Oliver  was  taken  into  a  small  paved  yard  at  the  back 
of  the  police-office,  where  the  cells  were,  but  it  seems 
clear  that  we  can't  follow  him,"  said  my  client  rue- 
fully. "  Some  accursed  buildings  have  been  erected 
over  the  yard,  or  at  all  events,  over  the  approach  to  it. 


12     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

The  place  was  open  enough  when  Dickens  saw  it ;  for 
when  Nancy  was  sent  to  find  out  what  had  happened  to 
Oliver  at  the  police-office,  she  went  in  by  the  back  way 
and  tapped  with  her  keys  on  the  cell  doors,  and  made 
inquiries  of  the  occupants.  It  was  a  nice  free-and-easy 
way  of  keeping  prisoners." 

We  made  our  way  back  to  the  main  thoroughfare, 
and  stood  once  more  in  front  of  Number  54. 

"The  police-office,"  said  my  companion,  "was  a 
front  parlour  with  a  panelled  wall.  Can  there  be  any 
doubt  that  the  room  before  us  is  that  self-same 
parlour?" 

I  applied  the  full  force  of  my  intellect  to  this  knotty 
problem ;  and,  at  length,  I  felt  justified  in  intimating 
with  true  judicial  gravity,  that  I  thought  the  matter 
admitted  of  no  doubt  whatever.  Mr.  Fairfield  bent 
himself  over  the  area  railings,  and  peered  through  one 
of  the  windows  of  the  ground-floor. 

"The  room  is  panelled,"  he  gasped;  "I  can  see  it 
distinctly.  It  is  panelled  all  over.  In  that  very  room, 
sir,  the  magistrate  sat  behind  a  bar  at  the  upper  end — 
that  means  the  end  farthest  from  us ;  and  on  one  side 
of  the  door — the  very  door  that  gives  upon  the  entrance 
hall — was  a  sort  of  wooden  pen  in  which  they  put  Oliver ; 
and  standing  by  the  bar  was  a  bluff  old  fellow  in  a 
striped  waistcoat.  Man  alive !  can't  you  picture  the 
whole  scene?" 

I  did  not  directly  answer  this  question ;  out  of  sheer 
perversity,  I  preferred  to  stir  up  the  enthusiast  rather 
than  sympathize  with  him. 

"  But  surely  the  whole  scene  was  fictitious,"  I  urged, 
with  all  Philistine  obtuseness. 

He  turned  upon  me  like  a  roused  lion.  I  suppose 
my  face  betrayed  me ;  for  the  indignation  in  his  eyes 
gave  place  to  a  twinkle,  and  for  a  moment  something 
not  far  removed  from  a  wink  fluttered  in  one  of  them. 
When  I  came  to  know  the  man  better,  I  found  that 
no  one  could  be  more  keenly  alive  to  the  comic  side  of 
his  enthusiasm  than  he  was.  I  had  a  suspicion  of  the 
fact  that  afternoon,  when  instead  of  denouncing  me  for 


DICKENS  IN  HATTON  GARDEN     13 

a  soulless  hog,  he  stood  looking  into  my  face  with  that 
twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"  It  isn't  so  much  because  Dickens  has  described  these 
places  that  I  take  an  interest  in  them,"  he  said,  as  he 
put  away  his  memoranda.  "  It's  not  so  much  because 
Dickens  used  them  as  a  stage  for  his  characters  that 
I  like  to  hunt  them  out.  It's  because  I  know  he  went 
over  every  inch  of  the  ground  himself.  And  that  being 
so,  when  I  see  these  places,  they  seem  to  bring  me  near 
him." 

He  spoke  with  placid  gravity  and  without  the  least 
self-consciousness.  "  I  feel  that  way  now,  sir,"  he  went 
on ;  and  as  he  spoke  he  placed  a  hand  on  my  arm  and 
pointed  to  the  windows  before  us — "  Charles  Dickens 
has  been  in  that  room."  He  said  this  with  so  much 
reverence  that  I  felt  abashed. 

"It's  odd  to  think  of  what  has  gone  on  in  there," 
observed  my  companion,  after  he  had  made  a  leisurely 
examination  of  several  further  scraps  of  memoranda 
and  had  meditated  for  a  while.  "  Justice  was  a  harsh 
thing  in  the  old  days.  Perhaps  it's  as  well  that  walls 
can't  speak." 

"Even  a  modern  police-court  is  hardly  a  place  of 
cheerful  memories,"  I  hinted. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Eliza  Penning.  She  was  brought 
before  the  magistrate  in  that  room.  I  was  wondering 
just  now  what  the  rights  of  the  case  were.  Dickens 
says  in  one  of  his  letters  to  Walter  Thornbury  that  she 
was  innocent,  but  that  wasn't  what  the  judge  and  jury 
thought.  She  was  hanged  for  trying  to  poison  her 
master  and  his  wife  and  son  with  arsenical  dumplings. 
That  was  in  1815.  The  case  made  a  great  stir  at  the 
time." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  never  heard  of  her." 

Mr.  Fairfield  laughed.  "  If  I  come  across  anything 
connected  with  a  place  I'm  interested  in,  it  hides  itself 
in  my  memory  in  some  mysterious  way  or  other,  and 
when  I  see  the  place,  the  thing  pops  up  in  my  mind. 
And  I  was  thinking  of  somebody  besides  Eliza  Fenning 
— Grimaldi  the  clown." 


14    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"I  have  heard  of  him,"  said  I  proudly. 

Mr.  Fairfield  laughed  again.  "  He  was  charged  with 
having  hunted  an  overdriven  ox  in  the  fields  of  Penton- 
ville — that  was  before  Laing's  time.  Joey  came  off  with 
flying  colours.  The  case  was  heard  there.  I'm  glad  to 
have  got  a  glimpse  of  that  room." 

"And  aren't  you  going  to  knock  at  the  door,  and  ask 
if  you  may  go  inside  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  am  not,"  was  the  Johnsonian  answer ; 
and  there  was  no  mistaking  the  acidity  in  Mr.  Fairfield's 
voice. 

POSTSCRIPT 
"THE  QUEEN  MUST  HAVE  HER  WILL" 

18.  ELIZ.  MARCH. — Richard  Cox  Bishop  of  Ely  granted  to 
Christoper  Hatton  the  gatehouse  of  Ely  Place  and  certain  other 
buildings,  fourteen  acres  of  land  and  the  keeping  of  the  gardens  and 
orchards  for  twenty-four  years. 

The  bishop  stood  in  his  garden  fair, 

And  lo,  it  was  Easter-day  ! 
His  gaze  went  forth  to  the  hill-crowned  north, 

And  he  sighed  as  he  turned  away. 
My  lord  of  Ely  was  seventy-five  ; 

His  tread  it  was  passing  slow, 
His  hands  were  locked,  and  his  head  was  bent, 
And  many  and  many  a  sigh  he  spent 
As  down  the  middlemost  alley  he  went, 

With  daffodils  all  a-blow. 

He  eyed  the  strawberry  beds  afar, 

And  they  were  a  goodly  reach  ; 
The  almond  tree  was  a  sight  to  see, 

And  so  was  the  early  peach. 
"  It  irks  me  sore,"  he  muttered  aloud, 

And  groaned  in  his  despair : 
The  sunshine  lay  on  his  palace  wall ; 
The  gatehouse  weathercock  gleamed  withal, 
And  big  blue  violets,  heavy  and  tall, 

Were  blossoming  everywhere. 

The  chimes  rang  out  upon  Holborn  Hill 

And  theirs  was  a  joyous  swell ; 
St.  Sepulchre's  chimes  rang  in  betimes 

Whenever  St.  Andrew's  fell. 


DICKENS  IN  HATTON  GARDEN     15 

And  O,  for  more  than  a  mile  beyond 

The  valley  that  lay  between, 
The  bells  were  ringing  their  Easter  calls  ! 
And,  lording  it  over  the  City  walls, 
The  great  dwarf  tower  of  the  great  St.  Paul's 

Looked  down  upon  all  the  scene. 

The  bishop  stood  in  his  garden  fair, 

And  sadly  he  gazed  his  nil. 
"  It  irks  me  sore,"  he  muttered  once  more  ; 

"But  the  queen  must  have  her  will." 
And  all  in  haste  was  the  lease  drawn  out, 

For  Hatton  was  wild  to  close ; 
But  little  enough  would  Christopher  pay  : 
Ten  pounds  in  money,  ten  loads  of  hay  ; 
And  as  for  the  garden — on  Midsummer-day 

The  rental  was  one  red  rose. 


CHAPTEK  H 
WITH  DICKENS  TO  THE  MARSHALSEA 

SOON  after  our  pilgrimage  to  Hatton  Garden,  in  search  of 
the  police-office  of  "  Oliver  Twist,"  my  relations  with  my 
client  began  to  grow  closer  and  more  intimate.  I  found 
on  better  acquaintance  that  though  Charles  Dickens 
claimed  his  most  fervent  worship,  he  was  aware  that 
the  pantheon  of  English  literature  contained  many  other 
divinities  ;  and  as  he  loved  to  ramble  about  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  their  haunts,  I,  who  had  a  fondness  in  the 
same  direction,  was  often  glad  enough  to  bear  him  com- 
pany. He  was  always  interesting  and  interested,  but 
there  was  no  return  of  the  wild  enthusiasm  that  had 
overmastered  him  in  Hatton  Garden.  Never  again 
did  I  see  that  dry  spare  figure  shake  off  its  more  than 
fifty  winters  and  break  into  a  run. 

One  Saturday  afternoon,  some  months  after  our  first 
ramble,  he  turned  up  at  my  office  in  Gray's  Inn,  and 
demanded  if  I  was  at  liberty. 

"I  was  dipping  into  Forster's  '  Life'  last  night,"  he 
said,  as  he  settled  himself  in  the  chair  which  my  clients 
have  so  often  found  a  stool  of  penitence,  "  and  I  came 
upon  those  scraps  of  the  autobiography  which  Dickens 
began  to  write,  and  which  he  afterwards  made  use  of 
in  '  David  Copperfield '.  They  tell  of  his  employment  in 
the  blacking- warehouse  at  Hungerford  Stairs." 

I  had  some  faint  recollection  of  the  fragments  to 
which  my  client  referred.  "  Dickens  was  quite  a  child 
at  the  time,  I  think,"  was  my  comment. 

"It  was  in  1824,  when  he  was  only  twelve  years  old. 
The  boy's  father  was  a  prisoner  for  debt  in  the  Marshal- 

16 


WITH  DICKENS  TO  MARSHALSEA     17 

sea,  and  the  family  home  was  there.  Little  Charles  used 
to  walk  back  to  the  prison  from  the  warehouse,  across 
Blackfriars  Bridge.  He  says  he  turned  out  of  the 
Blackfriars  Road  by  the  side  of  Rowland  Hill's  Chapel. 
I'm  not  very  familiar  with  the  country  on  the  other  side 
of  your  river,  and  I  don't  know  whereabouts  that  chapel 
was.  Do  you  know  ?  " 

I  nodded  assent.  The  building  had  been  pointed  out 
to  me  in  the  days  of  my  youth  by  an  aged  aunt  of  great 
piety,  who  in  earlier  years  had  been  a  worshipper  there. 

"  I  thought  perhaps  we  might  stroll  in  that  direction, 
and  make  our  way  to  the  Marshalsea  by  the  route  that 
child  followed  in  1824,  or  as  near  to  it  as  we  can  guess." 

I  had  no  objection ;  and  we  started  on  our  way.  We 
crossed  the  "  Sahara  Desert  of  the  Law  "  and  quitted  the 
Inn  by  the  "  old  gateway  "  which  gives  upon  Gray's  Inn 
Road,  and  which  for  some  mysterious  reason  bears  the 
winged  horse  of  the  Inner  Temple.  Through  this  portal, 
beneath  which  Jacob  Tonson  kept  his  shop,  and  hard 
by  which  in  still  earlier  days  grew  an  ancient  tree,  long 
famous  as  a  landmark,  we  passed  into  the  main  thorough- 
fare. I  had  a  bonne-bouche  for  Mr.  Fairfield  in  the  im- 
mediate neighbourhood;  so  I  led  him  eastward  across 
the  road  and  down  Bell  Court,  which  is  nearly  opposite 
the  gateway.  At  the  end  of  the  court  I  turned  off  to 
the  right ;  and  leading  my  companion  down  a  narrow 
passage  and  following  it  in  a  sharp  turn  to  the  left,  I 
brought  him  up  in  White  Hart  Yard.  We  were  just 
approaching  Brooke  Street,  upon  which  the  yard  gives, 
when  I  came  to  a  standstill. 

"That  house  may  interest  you,"  I  said  carelessly, 
pointing  to  the  west  end  of  the  yard.  "It  must  be  of 
enormous  age." 

The  house  referred  to  was  in  the  occupation  of  a 
cowkeeper  and  dairyman.  It  was  a  very  ancient  struc- 
ture, lop-sided,  and  top-heavy ;  built  almost  entirely 
of  wood,  and  roofed  with  fluted  red  tiles.  There  were 
two  small  windows  on  the  ground-floor,  one  of  which 
belonged  to  the  shop.  On  the  south  side  of  the  yard 
stood  another  wooden  structure,  evidently  appurtenant 
2 


18    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

to  the  old  house.  This  consisted  of  two  storeys,  the 
lower  of  which  was  used  as  a  stable  or  cowshed ; 
and  along  the  upper,  which  apparently  contained  two 
or  three  living  rooms,  ran  a  light  wooden  gallery.  The 
whole  of  the  premises  bore  such  a  strange  pastoral  air 
and  seemed  so  out  of  character  with  the  modern  brick 
and  mortar  by  which  they  were  hemmed  in,  that  they 
carried  the  mind  back  to  those  early  days  when  travellers 
from  Gray's  Inn  to  Ely  House  made  their  way  thither 
by  footpaths  which  ran  through  green  meadows. 

The  house  and  its  appurtenances  occupied  the  west 
and  south  sides  of  the  little  close  ;  on  the  north  side  were 
two  dwellings,  and  the  east  side  was  formed  by  one  of 
the  houses  in  Brooke  Street,  under  which  ran  a  passage 
into  that  street. 

This  old  house  was  my  bonne-bouche,  and  Mr.  Fairfield 
received  it  with  the  most  gratifying  enthusiasm. 

"It  is  extraordinary — extraordinary,"  he  exclaimed 
as  he  fitted  on  his  pince-nez  and  gazed  on  the  building, 
long  and  eagerly;  "really,  I  must  try  and  learn  some- 
thing of  its  history.  Fortunately,  I  see  syphons  in  that 
shop  window,"  he  ejaculated  a  moment  later. 

Without  explaining  this  enigmatical  remark,  he  made 
his  way  to  the  entrance  of  the  shop ;  and  bending  his 
long  body  over  the  half-door,  he  addressed  the  young 
woman  in  charge.  The  place  was  so  tiny  that  all  the 
business  of  the  establishment  was  done  over  its  dwarf 
portal,  with  the  customer  standing  outside. 

"  Can  you  oblige  me  with  a  bottle  of  lemonade?  "  he 
asked  blandly. 

"  To  take  away,  I  suppose,"  observed  the  damsel,  as 
she  turned  to  the  shelf  behind  her. 

"Oh  dear,  no,"  answered  Mr.  Fairfield,  somewhat 
taken  aback  at  the  suggestion  that  he  wished  to  burden 
himself  with  such  an  incumbrance  ;  "I  shall  esteem  it  a 
favour  if  you  will  allow  me  to  drink  it  here." 

"  This  is  a  very  old  house  of  yours,"  he  remarked  as 
he  stood  in  the  yard,  glass  in  hand,  and  gazed  through 
his  pince-nez  upon  the  interior  of  the  little  shop. 

"I  daresay  it  is,"  was  the  answer,  given  with  per- 


WITH  DICKENS  TO  MARSHALSEA     19 

feet  politeness  but  an  entire  lack  of  interest.  This 
was  very  discouraging ;  and  as  I  stood  by  my  client's 
side  and  marked  the  disappointment  upon  his  counte- 
nance, I  nearly  laughed  aloud. 

"  You  have  no  idea  how  old,  I  suppose  ?  "  he  resumed, 
after  a  sip  of  his  lemonade. 

"Not  the  least,"  said  the  young  lady — "you  know 
more  about  the  place  than  I  do,"  she  added,  turning  to 
an  elderly  man  who  stood  behind  us,  and  addressing  him 
by  his  Christian  name. 

Mr.  Fairfield  wheeled  round  and  confronted  this  in- 
dividual. 

"  Surely  the  house  is  very  old,  sir,"  he  remarked  with 
grave  politeness. 

"Old  !  I  should  think  it  was  old.  No  one  knows  how 
old  it  is." 

"Perhaps  three  hundred  years,"  suggested  my  client. 

"  More  than  that,  very  like." 

"  I  suppose  it  was  at  one  time  a  farmhouse,  standing 
in  the  fields,"  resumed  Mr.  Fairfield,  much  encouraged. 

"It  was  a  tavern"  replied  the  elderly  man,  with  the 
air  of  one  who  gives  an  answer  beyond  his  questioner's 
expectations.  "  These  was  the  stables,"  he  added, 
pointing  to  the  galleried  wooden  structure  on  his  right. 

This  man's  notion  of  a  tavern  was  probably  something 
very  different  from  the  picture  which  the  word,  used  in 
connexion  with  that  old  house  near  Gray's  Inn,  called 
up  in  the  mind  of  my  companion ;  but  it  was  evident 
that  the  stranger  from  the  far  west  was  hugely  pleased 
with  the  information.  He  took  a  moderate  draught  from 
the  glass  in  his  hand,  and  positively  smacked  his  lips 
with  enjoyment. 

"  This  lemonade  is  most  excellent ;  and  really  I  must 
trouble  you  for  one  of  those,"  he  proclaimed,  as  he 
turned  with  a  beaming  smile  to  the  young  woman,  and 
pointed  to  a  glass  jar  of  heart-cakes.  His  anxiety  to 
keep  the  establishment  in  good  humour  until  he  had 
extracted  from  it  every  particle  of  information  was  so 
manifest  that  I  could  not  keep  back  a  smile.  The 
elderly  man  noticed  this ;  and  gazing  hard  at  me,  he 


20    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

closed  his  left  eye.  Though  I  was  not  sure  of  his  mean- 
ing, I  felt  little  doubt  that  he  wished  to  indicate  that 
he  recognized  in  the  two  strangers  a  harmless  lunatic 
and  his  keeper.  Nevertheless,  I  thought  it  right  in  my 
client's  interest  to  return  the  wink. 

"  Do  you  know  when  the  house  ceased  to  be  a  tavern  ? ' ' 
resumed  Mr.  Fairfield  with  intense  interest,  as  he  stood 
on  the  asphalt,  with  the  glass  in  one  hand  and  the  heart- 
cake  in  the  other.  The  correctness  of  his  long  frock- 
coat  and  general  tenue  made  the  picture  very  comical. 

"  It  was  before  we  come  here,  and  that's  more  than 
thirty  years  ago,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  know  what  it  was  called  ?  " 

The  elderly  man  shook  his  head. 

"  This  place  is  called  White  Hart  Yard,"  I  ventured 
to  interpose.  "  Many  of  the  places  in  London  that  are 
called  yards,  owe  their  names  to  the  taverns  to  which 
they  once  belonged.  Don't  you  think  it  probable  that 
this  tavern  was  the  White  Hart  ?  " 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  it,"  was  his  emphatic 
answer ;  "  and,"  he  continued  with  growing  triumph, 
"  if  this  yard  took  its  name  from  the  tavern,  surely  the 
tavern  must  have  been  of  great  antiquity." 

No  more  information  was  forthcoming,  except  a  state- 
ment that  if  the  house  fell  down  the  County  Council 
would  not  allow  it  to  be  rebuilt  in  the  same  style ;  and 
after  Mr.  Fairfield  had  with  scrupulous  politeness  finished 
both  the  lemonade  and  the  heart-cake  we  resumed  our 
pilgrimage. 

"This  is  Brooke  Street,  where  Chatterton  died,"  I  re- 
marked, as  we  passed  under  the  archway ;  "  and  Fox 
Court,  where  Savage  said  he  was  born,  runs  out  of  it,  a 
few  paces  to  our  right." 

My  companion  was  in  a  brown  study,  and  did  not 
seem  to  notice  what  I  said.  We  crossed  the  road  and 
turned  down  Greville  Street,  which  for  so  many  cen- 
turies formed  the  northern  boundary  of  Furnival's  Inn ; 
now,  alas  !  no  more.  I  pulled  him  up  here,  to  point  out 
that  Numbers  24  and  25  Brooke  Street  were  old. 

"  It  seems  likely  they  were  built  about  the  same  time 


WITH  DICKENS  TO  MARSHALSEA     21 

as  Chatterton's  house.  You  see  those  garrets  with  the 
parapets."  I  was  gratified  to  observe  that  my  com- 
panion thought  the  old  houses  worthy  of  a  memorandum. 

Continuing  our  way  down  Greville  Street,  we  turned 
to  the  right  into  Leather  Lane ;  and  so  deep  was 
Mr.  Fairfield's  renewed  meditation  that  he  seemed 
oblivious  of  the  fact  that  we  were  passing  the  site  of 
the  house  in  which  the  "  Pickwick  Papers  "  were  written. 

"  Supposing  that  house  is  only  three  hundred  years 
old,"  he  remarked,  emerging  from  his  reverie  ;  "  suppos- 
ing it  was  not  built  till  1601,  just  think  of  what  it  may 
have  seen !  Perhaps  Shakespeare  turned  into  it  when 
he  played  in  Gray's  Inn  Hall.  Milton,  too,  may  have 
been  there " 

"  Milton  !  "  I  ejaculated.  "  What  would  he  be  doing 
in  such  a  place?  " 

"  Well,  we  are  told  he  had  some  gay  friends  in  Gray's 
Inn." 

"But  I  don't  suppose,"  continued  Mr.  Fairfield,  as  if 
recognizing  a  certain  incongruity  in  associating  Milton 
with  tavern-haunting,  "I  don't  suppose,  however  gay 
his  friends  were,  or  however  much  he  unbent  in  their 
company,  he  went  a-tippling  with  them.  No,  sir,  in 
those  days  men  often  went  to  taverns  for  their  meals — 
old  Pepys  proves  this — and  I  daresay  Milton  was  no 
exception." 

"  But  even  if  we  don't  go  so  far  back  as  that,  or  fly  at 
such  high  game,"  he  proceeded,  noticing  that  I  was 
smiling,  and  breaking  into  a  smile  himself,  "  who  can 
doubt  that  when  Chatterton  poisoned  himself  at  the 
Holborn  end  of  the  street,  there  was  plenty  of  talk  among 
the  customers  of  the  White  Hart  ?  He  died  in  1770. 
I  was  reading  about  him  only  last  week  in  Forster's 
'  Goldsmith '.  Suicide  was  not  common  in  the  eighteenth 
century,  and  the  whole  neighbourhood  must  have  known 
that  a  young  man — he  was  only  eighteen,  poor  lad — 
had  been  found  dead  in  his  garret ;  the  cup  which  had 
held  the  poison  still  grasped  in  his  hand,  and  the  floor 
covered  with  fragments  of  manuscript.  You  can  im- 
agine what  a  pow-wow  there  was  in  that  old  tavern, 


22    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

and  how  the  decent  householders  who  used  it,  shook 
their  wigs  over  the  wickedness  of  the  act,  and  declared, 
as  they  sipped  their  punch  and  snuffed  the  stinking 
tallow  candles,  that  authors  were  a  bad  lot." 

"The  register  of  his  burial  is  in  that  old  church 
yonder,"  quoth  Mr.  Fairfield,  pointing  to  St.  Andrew's, 
Holborn,  the  west  side  of  which  we  were  just  then 
nearing. 

"  Archaic  stuff  like  his  poetry  doesn't  appeal  to  me 
much,"  he  went  on,  "  but  there  are  bits  here  and  there — 

Sweet  his  tongue  as  the  throstle's  note, 
Quick  in  dance  as  thought  was  he  ; 
Deft  his  tabor,  cudgel  stout ; 
Oh,  he  lies  by  the  willow  tree  ! 

Come  with  acorn  cup  and  thorn, 
Drain  my  heart's  blood  all  away  ; 
Life  and  all  its  good  I  scorn, 
Dance  by<  night,  or  feast  by  day. 

My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death-bed, 

All  under  the  willow  tree. 

That  seems  to  me  remarkably  easy  verse  for  the 
eighteenth  century ;  and  there's  a  smack  of  poetry  in 
'  Come  with  acorn  cup  and  thorn '." 

"But  isn't  the  whole  thing  like  one  of  Ophelia's 
songs  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes !  it's  imitative ;  but,  then,  think  how  young 
he  was  !  And  that  reminds  me — Forster  says  his  body 
was  taken  to  the  parish  bone-house,  and  as  no  one 
claimed  it,  it  was  buried  in  the  pauper  burial-ground  of 
Shoe  Lane.  I  suppose  that  can't  be  far  off." 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  Stonecutter  Street.  I 
turned  the  corner  and  led  my  companion  a  few  paces 
eastward  into  Farringdon  Avenue. 

"  Not  a  vestige  of  the  burial-ground  remains,  but  this 
street  passes  over  the  site  of  it,"  said  I. 

The  aspect  of  the  place  was  offensively  modern,  but 
Mr.  Fairfield  gazed  on  it  without  disfavour. 

"  Perhaps  here  under  our  feet  there  still  remains  some 
fragment  of  Chatterton,"  he  observed  meditatively. 


WITH  DICKENS  TO  MARSHALSEA     23 

We  retraced  our  steps ;  and  when  we  regained  the 
corner,  I  drew  my  companion's  attention  to  a  narrow 
tunnel  running  out  of  the  opposite  side  of  Shoe  Lane, 
just  below  the  junction  of  the  lane  with  St.  Bride 
Street.  We  could  read  the  name  "  Gunpowder  Alley  " 
from  where  we  stood,  and  I  reminded  him  that  Lovelace 
the  poet  had  died  there. 

"I  remember,  I  remember,"  he  exclaimed,  as  we 
made  our  way  to  the  narrow  opening. 

"  We  know  it  was  a  very  poor  place  in  his  time,"  said 
he,  as  he  gazed  up  it.  "  Not  much  daylight  or  fresh  air 
here,  sir,  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago."  And  my 
client  fell  a-musing. 

"I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much 
Loved  I  not  honour  more," 

he  repeated  after  a  pause,  very  softly  but  with  strong 
emphasis.  "You  made  a  poor  end  of  it,  Colonel,  as 
this  world  goes,"  he  went  on,  as  if  addressing  the  dead 
man's  shade  ;  "  and  I  daresay  when  your  coffin  was 
carried  out  over  where  we're  standing,  there  weren't 
many  mourners  with  it ;  but  your  lines  still  make  men 
tingle,  Richard  Lovelace,  and  your  name  smells  sweet — 
sweet  as  a  nosegay." 

There  was  unmistakable  emotion  in  Mr.  Fairfield's 
voice  as  he  stood  by  Gunpowder  Alley  that  afternoon  in 
August,  1901,  and  thought  of  the  gallant  gentleman  who 
had  died  there  so  miserably  during  the  Protectorate. 

"  The  Lovelaces  were  a  fighting  race ;  there  were  at 
least  three  brothers  in  the  king's  army,"  he  said  as  we 
turned  away.  "  Richard  and  Francis  were  both  colonels ; 
another  brother  was  a  captain.  Something  of  a  record 
that,  I  think,  for  one  family " 

"  Only  two  colonels  !"  I  exclaimed  with  much  sym- 
pathy. "  Dear,  dear !  " 

Although  Mr.  Fairfield,  that  very  afternoon,  had  made 
a  jocular  reference  to  his  countrymen's  passion  for  mili- 
tary titles,  it  was  with  a  set  and  austere  countenance 
that  he  received  this  interruption.  But,  good  patriot 


24     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

though  he  was,  a  gleam  of  amusement  sparkled  in  his 
eye. 

"  Rowland  Hill's  chapel  stands  at  the  corner  of  Char- 
lotte Street,  just  beyond  that  railway  arch  ahead  of  us," 
I  remarked,  after  we  had  crossed  Blackfriars  Bridge. 

"  Stands !  "  said  my  companion  with  great  animation. 
"  Do  you  mean  it  hasn't  been  pulled  down  ?  " 

"  It  was  shut  up  as  a  chapel  many  years  ago,  but  the 
structure  still  remains,  and  I  don't  think  the  outside 
has  altered  much." 

The  enthusiast  quickened  his  pace,  and  produced  from 
his  pocket  one  of  those  sheafs  of  notes  with  which  I  had 
become  so  familiar. 

"  Dickens  must  have  come  along  the  Strand  and  Fleet 
Street.  I  daresay  he  struck  off  a  bit  to  go  through 
Holy  well  Street,  but  except  for  that,  he  must  have 
followed  the  main  line  of  route  till  he  got  to  that  obelisk 
on  Ludgate  Hill  which  we  have  just  left  behind  us. 
There  have  been  terrible  changes  right  along  since  1822," 
said  Mr.  Fairfield  bitterly ;  "  but  Somerset  House 
was  there  then,  and  the  two  churches  in  the  middle  of 
the  roadway  were  there.  The  bridge  we've  just  crossed 
wasn't  there,  and  no  doubt  the  approach  to  the  old 
bridge  from  the  end  of  Fleet  Street  wasn't  quite  the 
same." 

"  The  Embankment  itself  would  make  a  good  deal  of 
difference,"  I  hinted. 

Mr.  Fairfield's  face  seemed  to  suggest  that  the  Em- 
bankment ought  never  to  have  been  constructed,  but  he 
brightened  up  a  moment  later  and  scanned  the  Black- 
friars  Road  approvingly. 

"  This  street  can't  have  altered  its  appearance  much, 
now  we've  got  past  the  railway  station." 

I  ventured  to  remark  that  it  could  never  have  been 
anything  but  a  beast  of  a  place ;  but  my  companion  was 
so  deeply  immersed  in  his  memoranda  that  he  allowed 
the  outrage  of  describing  in  such  terms  a  thoroughfare 
which  had  been  hallowed  by  the  foot  of  Charles  Dickens 
to  pass  uncensured. 

I  thought  it  worth  while  to  take  his  arm  as  soon  as 


WITH  DICKENS  TO  MARSHALSEA     25 

we  had  passed  Christ's  Church,  and  lead  him  down  the 
turning  which  opens  between  the  Prince  Albert  public- 
house  and  the  south-east  corner  of  the  churchyard.  It 
seemed  a  pity  not  to  show  such  an  enthusiast  in  things 
ancient  the  five  wooden  cottages  that  adjoin  the  public- 
house.  No  other  survival  of  old  Southwark  is  half  so 
quaint  as  these  cottages,  with  their  tiled  roofs  and 
dormer  windows. 

"  Wonderful !  "  he  ejaculated.     "  Where  are  we  ?  " 

The  name  of  the  turning  was  nowhere  to  be  found, 
but  we  learned  from  a  small  native,  that  it  was  Colling- 
wood  Street.  Mr.  Fairfield  planted  himself  against  the 
churchyard  railings,  exactly  opposite  the  third  cottage ; 
and  after  scanning  all  five  of  them  long  and  attentively, 
he  brought  out  his  pocket-book  and  began  to  make  a 
note. 

"  It  may  take  us  some  time  to  find  the  Marshalsea," 
I  hinted. 

"  True,  true  !  I  can  come  again  another  day,"  he  ad- 
mitted, as  he  put  away  the  pocket-book  and  fished 
out  his  Dickens  memoranda.  We  turned  back  into 
the  Blackfriars  Boad  and  continued  our  way  south- 
ward. 

"The  autobiography  says,"  he  presently  remarked, 
lifting  his  eyes  from  a  scrap  of  manuscript,  "  that  his  way 
home  was  over  Blackfriars  Bridge  and  down  the  turn- 
ing with  Rowland  Hill's  chapel  on  one  side  and  the  like- 
ness of  a  golden  dog  licking  a  golden  pot  on  the  other." 

"  A  venerable  aunt  of  mine,  who  was  an  enthusiastic 
member  of  Rowland's  Hill's  flock,  told  me  that  the 
pastor  was  buried  under  his  pulpit  in  that  chapel,  and 
that  the  scene  at  the  funeral  was  most  affecting,"  I  ob- 
served, as  we  drew  near  the  railway  bridge.  "  She 
also  told  me  that  the  organ  was  so  powerful,  that  on 
one  occasion  when  it  was  playing  a  hymn  descriptive  of 
thunder,  many  of  the  worshippers  fainted." 

"  I  trust  the  instrument  is  still  in  being,"  said  Mr. 
Fairfield  with  genial  irony,  as  he  stared  hard  in  front  of 
him  ;  "  grand  opera  can  have  been  nothing  to  it.  I  see 
something  on  the  left,  just  beyond  the  bridge,  that  looks 


26    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

like  the  lantern  belonging  to  a  rotunda ;  possibly  that 
is  the  chapel." 

As  soon  as  we  had  passed  under  the  bridge,  it  was 
plain  that  this  conjecture  was  right ;  the  chapel  stood  a 
few  paces  in  front  of  us  on  the  east  side  of  the  road. 
Somewhat  to  my  surprise,  my  eye  caught  another  object, 
but  I  said  nothing.  I  wanted  my  companion  to  find  out 
that  object  for  himself ;  I  knew  how  refreshing  his  en- 
thusiasm would  be  when  he  came  upon  it. 

"  And  this  is  the  famous  Surrey  Chapel,"  said  Mr. 
Fairfield,  as  we  scanned  the  front  of  the  building.  "  I 
almost  wonder  that  the  reverend  gentleman's  flock  or 
their  descendants  could  allow  such  a  desecration  as  this. 
One  may  at  least  venture  to  hope  that  his  venerable  re- 
mains have  not  been  disturbed  to  make  room  for  the  bed 
of  some  steam  hammer." 

The  chapel  had  indeed  fallen  from  its  high  estate.  It 
was  in  occupation  as  the  headquarters  of  a  firm  of  agri- 
cultural implement  makers,  and  it  presented  a  decidedly 
commercial  appearance.  We  gazed  on  the  front  for  a 
while,  and  then  turned  the  corner  and  inspected  the 
building  from  that  point  of  view. 

"  What  was  it  the  autobiography  said  about  this  turn- 
ing? "  I  inquired  artlessly,  when  we  had  completed  our 
inspection  of  the  degraded  chapel,  and  were  standing  at 
the  corner  of  Charlotte  Street.  Mr.  Fairfield  referred  to 
his  memoranda,  and  read  aloud  with  great  gusto  : — 

"  My  usual  way  home  was  over  Blackfriars  Bridge  and  down  that 
turning  which  has  Rowland  Hill's  chapel  on  one  side,  and  the 
likeness  of  a  golden  dog  licking  a  golden  pot  over  the  shop  door 
on  the  other.  There  are  a  great  many  little  low-browed  old  shops 
in  that  street  of  a  wretched  kind  and  some  are  unchanged  now. 
I  looked  into  one  a  few  days  ago"  ["This  was  written  in  1847," 
explained  Mr.  Fairfield]  "  where  I  used  to  buy  bootlaces  on 
Saturday  nights,  and  saw  the  corner  where  I  once  sat  down  on  a 
stool  to  have  a  pair  of  ready-made  half -boots  fitted  •  on.  I  have 
been  seduced  more  than  once  in  that  street  on  a  Saturday  night 
by  a  showman  at  a  corner,  and  have  gone  in  with  a  motley  as- 
sembly to  see  the  'Fat  Pig,'  the  'Wild  Indian,'  and  the  'Little 
Lady '.  There  were  two  or  three  hat  manufactories  there  then  (I 
think  they  are  there  still),  and  among  the  things  which,  encountered 
anywhere  or  under  any  circumstances,  will  instantly  recall  that  time 
is  the  smell  of  hat-making." 


WITH  DICKENS  TO  MARSHALSEA     27 

"  Ah,"  I  remarked  meditatively,  when  the  extract  was 
finished,  "  that  was  close  upon  eighty  years  ago  !  We 
can  hardly  expect  to  find  any  of  the  old  landmarks  left. 
What  was  it  that  was  opposite  the  chapel  ?  " 

"  The  likeness  of  a  golden  dog — "  began  my  com- 
panion, returning  to  his  manuscript.  Then  he  lifted 
his  eyes  towards  the  opposite  corner  of  Charlotte  Street, 
and  gave  a  great  start. 

"  Gracious  powers  !  "  he  exclaimed  in  high  excitement, 
"  why,  there  it  is !  "  and  he  hurried  across  the  roadway. 

Sure  enough,  above  the  door  of  the  ironmonger's  shop 
that  stood  at  the  south  corner  of  Charlotte  Street  was 
the  effigy  of  a  golden  dog  licking  a  golden  pot.  This 
effigy  stood  out  boldly  from  the  house  front,  supported 
on  an  iron  shaft,  and  seemingly  in  excellent  preservation. 
It  had  caught  my  eye  from  the  other  side  of  the  road. 

"  This  is  truly  extraordinary,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield, 
with  a  slight  flush  on  his  face,  after  he  had  made  a  pro- 
longed survey  of  the  golden  dog.  "  To  think  that  all 
these  years  after  that  child  used  to  pass  down  this  street, 
we  should  still  be  able  to  see  the  very  object  on  which 
his  eyes  rested,  and  which  he  mentioned  to  Forster  in 
1847." 

While  my  companion  was  making  a  note  of  this 
wonderful  discovery,  I  suddenly  bethought  me  that  the 
house  of  that  venerable  aunt  of  mine  was  just  round  the 
corner.  More  than  thirty  years  had  elapsed  since  I  had 
last  seen  it,  and  as  the  meals  which  I  had  enjoyed 
within  its  hospitable  walls  were  among  the  most  sacred 
memories  of  my  childhood,  I  craved  Mr.  Fairfield's 
leave  to  bestow  a  few  minutes  on  an  inspection  of  the 
old  place.  It  was  only  four  or  five  houses  lower  down 
the  Blackfriars  Koad  than  the  ironmonger's  shop  at 
which  we  were  standing,  and  I  found  it  without  difficulty. 
While  my  client  was  gazing  up  at  the  grimy  front 
with  sympathetic  interest,  a  sudden  flash  of  memory, 
connected  with  the  houses  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
road,  struck  upon  my  brain. 

"Fairfield,"  I  said,  "did  you  ever  hear  of  Elliston, 
the  actor?" 


28    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"'Joyousest  of  once  embodied  spirits,'"  was  his 
ready  answer ;  and  I  recognized  the  quotation,  and  re- 
proached myself  for  having  forgotten  that  Elia  had 
made  Elliston's  name  immortal. 

"  He  died  in  that  house  opposite,"  I  said,  pointing  to 
Number  84.  "I  fancy  that  when  he  took  the  Surrey 
Theatre  and  came  to  live  over  here,  the  Reverend  Row- 
land Hill  and  he  were  generally  regarded  by  the  pious 
folks  of  this  neighbourhood  as  excellent  representatives 
of  the  rival  forces  of  good  and  evil.  My  aunt,  who 
was  of  course  on  the  side  of  the  angels,  always  spoke 
of  Elliston  with  bated  breath.  She  used  to  describe 
how  she  watched  his  funeral  from  her  dining-room 
window,  and  to  hint  that  it  was  a  good  deal  grander 
than  such  a  monster  of  iniquity  deserved." 

"  He  was  a  poor  frothy  creature,  and  a  sad  tosspot," 
observed  Mr.  Fairfield,  as  we  moved  across  the  road  to 
get  a  nearer  view  of  Number  84,  "  but  as  he  was  a  friend 
of  Charles  Lamb  there  must  have  been  some  good  in  him. 
I  wonder  if  Lamb  ever  went  up  those  steps  and  used  that 
knocker ! " 

"  I  suppose  you  know  the  way  to  the  Marshalsea  from 
here,"  said  my  companion,  when  he  had  returned  to 
Charlotte  Street.  He  had  a  great  respect  for  my  know- 
ledge of  London,  and  seemed  always  to  take  it  for  granted 
that,  no  matter  where  we  might  be,  the  way  to  any 
given  point  was  as  plain  to  me  as  all  the  wickedness  of 
the  world  was  plain  to  Mr.  Bailey. 

"If  we  keep  east  with  a  little  south  in  it,  we  shall 
come  into  Mint  Street,  and  that  leads  straight  to  St. 
George's  Church.  You  may  depend  upon  it,  the  boy 
Dickens  liked  to  cut  off  corners,  and  if  we  keep  on  the 
slant  I  don't  suppose  we  shall  get  far  off  his  route." 

This  was  playing  the  game  in  a  right  spirit,  and  Mr. 
Fairfield  beamed  approval. 

It  was  a  great  satisfaction  to  him  to  find  that  most  of 
the  houses  in  Charlotte  Street  were  more  than  eighty 
years  old.  "  That,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a  boot-shop 
that  we  were  passing,  "may  be  the  very  shop  where 
he  tried  on  those  half-boota  It  isn't  very  difficult  to 


WITH  DICKENS  TO  MARSHALSEA     29 

picture  what  he  looked  like,  for  he  says  what  his  clothes 
were." 

The  sheaf  of  memoranda  came  forth  once  more.  "  He 
speaks  of  his  poor  little  white  hat,  little  jacket  and 
corduroy  trousers ;  and  he  says  he  had  a  fat  old  silver 
watch  in  his  pocket,  which  his  grandmother  gave  him." 

"  There  is  still  a  hatmaker's  here,"  exclaimed  my 
client  with  great  joy,  as  at  the  corner  of  the  entrance  to 
Nelson  Square,  he  caught  sight  of  the  familiar  name  of 
Lincoln,  Bennett  &  Co.  "I  wonder  if  it  was  their  hats 
which  he  used  to  smell  in  1824  ?  These  railways  have 
played  havoc  with  London,"  he  protested  very  irritably  ; 
flying  off  at  a  tangent  as  his  eye  caught  the  bridge  which 
spans  the  east  end  of  Charlotte  Street. 

"James  Watt  has  much  to  answer  for,"  I  replied; 
and  my  companion  laughed. 

"  His  invention  had  a  disastrous  effect  on  the  livery- 
stable  business,  anyhow,"  he  said.  "  Have  you  ever 
noticed  in  the  old  maps  of  London  how  thickly  livery- 
stables  are  dotted  about  the  whole  face  of  it?" 

"  This  is  Gravel  Lane,"  I  announced,  when  we  had 
passed  the  King  of  Prussia  public-house,  which  stands 
at  the  south-east  corner  of  Charlotte  Street,  and  had 
entered  the  thoroughfare  that  runs  right  and  left.  "  I'm 
not  sure  it's  still  called  so;  but  that's  the  old  name." 

"I  have  heard  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield  placidly ;  and 
with  something  like  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  he  added,  "  John 
Bunyan's  Chapel  stood  in  Zoar  Street,  which  turns  out 
of  it.  I  had  an  impression  when  we  came  over  the  bridge 
just  now,  that  the  place  was  somewhere  in  this  direction." 

We  proceeded  southward  along  Gravel  Lane  for  a 
hundred  yards  or  thereabouts.  Then  I  paused ;  for  I 
was  beginning  to  feel  doubtful  as  to  the  correctness  of 
our  route. 

"  Look  there !  "  said  Mr.  Fairfield,  giving  me  a  nudge, 
and  pointing  through  the  railway  arch  on  our  right 
hand,  to  a  public-house  at  the  south-east  corner  of 
Surrey  Row.  It  was  a  house  of  such  undoubted  anti- 
quity and  so  unlike  all  the  buildings  in  its  neighbour- 
hood, that  we  were  both  astonished. 


30    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  The  Old  King's  Arms !  "  muttered  my  companion  ; 
"  I  guess  that  king  was  George  the  First — perhaps  the 
Dutchman,  even.  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  a  tiled  roof 
that  shape.  I  must  make  a  note  of  this  place — lucky 
it's  a  tavern !  " 

"  We  won't  stop  to  go  inside."  I  said  this  with  great 
firmness,  for  I  felt  no  doubt  as  to  what  his  next  move 
would  be. 

"  But  do  let  me  make  a  note,"  he  answered,  laugh- 
ing 

"  I  believe  that's  what  architects  call  an  ogee  roof," 
he  said,  when  the  note  was  finished ;  "  each  of  the  four 
sides  has  a  wave  like  Hogarth's  line  of  beauty — some- 
thing like  a  letter  S.  Who  could  have  dreamed  of  find- 
ing such  a  picturesque  old  house  here  ?  " 

By  this  time  I  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
sooner  we  struck  eastward  the  better.  We  crossed  to 
the  other  side  of  Gravel  Lane — Great  Suffolk  Street  is, 
I  think,  the  modern  name  of  this  part  of  the  ancient 
thoroughfare— and  retracing  our  route  for  some  thirty  or 
forty  yards,  we  turned  down  Orange  Street.  I  trusted 
to  luck  to  find  turnings  that  would  enable  us  to  shape 
our  course  a  point  or  two  eastward. 

"Poor  little  mite!"  burst  out  my  companion  a  few 
minutes  later,  as  he  surveyed  the  mean  houses  that  we 
were  passing.  "  He  says  that  he  worked  from  morning 
to  night  with  common  men  and  boys,  a  shabby  child, 
and  that  he  was  insufficiently  and  unsatisfactorily  fed  ; 
and  he  says,  too,  that  but  for  the  mercy  of  God,  he 
might,  for  any  care  that  was  taken  of  him,  have  become 
a  little  robber  or  a  little  vagabond.  I  seem  to  see  him 
with  my  very  eyes  as  we  follow  up  his  tracks  along  these 
wretched  streets." 

This  absorption  in  the  business  in  hand  was  infectious. 
As  we  went  on,  a  feeling  that  we  were  treading  in  the 
child's  footsteps  grew  upon  me  also ;  and  I  found  my- 
self talking  of  the  way  with  reference  to  his  journeyings 
between  the  blacking- warehouse  and  the  Marshalsea  of  so 
many  years  before,  exactly  as  if  we  were  following  a  well- 
marked  trail  that  the  small  feet  had  left  behind  them. 


WITH  DICKENS  TO  MARSHALSEA     31 

Presently  the  talk  died  away ;  and  by  this  time 
my  friend's  illusion  had  so  taken  hold  of  me  that 
I,  too,  was  feeling  something  like  a  physical  conscious- 
ness of  a  shadowy  little  figure  flitting  before  us — the 
figure  of  a  long-haired  child  in  a  poor  little  white  hat, 
little  jacket,  and  corduroy  trousers  :  the  child  Copper- 
field  of  Phiz's  illustrations. 

When  we  came  upon  the  South wark  Bridge  Koad  I  was 
satisfied  that  we  were  steering  a  fairly  correct  course 
for  the  Marshalsea,  but  I  thought  it  well  to  slant  off  a 
little  to  the  right.  Suddenly  Mr.  Fairfield  caught  my 
arm. 

"  Look  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  corner  of  a 
street  that  we  were  passing. 

"  Quilp  Street,  late  Queen  Street,"  was  written  up. 

We  resumed  our  way  without  a  word,  and  the 
shadowy  little  figure  seemed  more  real  than  ever.  Once 
again,  I  felt  my  companion's  hand  on  my  arm  and  I 
looked  up — "Clennam  Street,  late  Pike  Street,"  was 
written  up  at  another  corner. 

For  some  time  we  stood  and  gazed  at  this  inscription 
in  silence. 

"It's  quite  beautiful,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield  at  length, 
in  a  voice  that  was  positively  tremulous.  "  Here,  along 
the  way  by  which  that  neglected  child  used  to  pass  from 
his  shameful  business  to  his  home  in  that  prison,  the 
streets  have  been  re-named  after  his  creations.  The 
recollection  of  that  time  was  so  painful  to  him,"  he 
went  on,  not  attempting  to  hide  his  emotion,  "  and  it 
had  so  bitten  itself  into  his  mind,  that,  speaking  to 
Forster  about  it  three-and-twenty  years  afterwards,  he 
said  that  to  follow  his  old  way  home  by  the  Borough 
made  him  cry  after  his  eldest  child  could  speak.  How 
one  wishes  that  he  could  have  known  that  this  would 
be,"  added  my  client  fervently,  with  his  eyes  glued  on 
the  words,  "  Clennam  Street." 

I  myself  was  a  little  moved  ;  but  I  thought  that  the 
authorities,  no  matter  how  excellent  their  intentions, 
had  not  been  happy  in  their  selection  of  at  least  one  of 
the  two  names.  I  held  my  peace,  however. 


32    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

When  we  resumed  our  way  I  found  that  recent  im- 
provements had  abolished  Mint  Street,  and  that  in  its 
place  there  was  a  new  and  much  broader  thoroughfare 
leading  to  St.  George's  Church,  and  its  name  was  Mar- 
shalsea  Road.  Mr.  Fairfield  laughed  exultingly  when  I 
told  him  of  the  change. 

"  But  for  Dickens  the  name  of  the  Marshalsea  would 
be  as  dead  as  the  Pharaohs,"  said  he. 

We  emerged  into  the  Borough  High  Street  opposite 
the  church,  and  my  companion  led  me  northward  up  the 
east  side  of  the  street  for  some  fifty  yards,  and  then 
turned  into  a  paved  passage  running  under  the  houses. 

"This  is  Angel  Place,"  he  said,  when  we  had  pro- 
ceeded up  it  for  twenty  or  thirty  paces ;  "  the  prison  lies 
inside  there  on  our  right.  You  used  to  be  able  to  see 
the  two  rows  of  houses  built  back  to  back  that  composed 
it.  The  rooms  were  about  ten  and  a  half  feet  square, 
and  eight  and  a  half  feet  high.  This  shell  that  is  built 
over  the  place  is  quite  modern.  The  wall  had  been 
lowered  when  Dickens  was  here  in  1857 — he  says  so  in 
the  preface  to  'Little  Dorrit'.  You  might  suppose 
that  it  had  disappeared  altogether  now ;  but  look 
here !  "  My  companion  broke  off  and  hurried  forward  ; 
and  a  little  further  on,  where  the  passage  narrowed, 
there  towered  on  our  right  the  blank  face  of  an  old  and 
massive  wall  of  no  contemptible  height. 

"  That  is  part  of  the  older-prison  wall,"  he  observed 
triumphantly.  "That's  where  the  smugglers  were 
supposed  to  be  kept  when  Dickens  was  a  boy." 

Mr.  Fairfield  led  me  back  to  the  main  thoroughfare, 
and  planted  me  on  the  west  side  of  it,  opposite  the 
passage  we  had  just  explored. 

"  The  entrance  to  the  prison  was  where  that  house 
now  stands,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  third  house  to  the 
right  of  Angel  Place. 

The  house  in  question  was  Number  211.  I  had  no 
reason  to  doubt  my  friend's  word ;  but  I  felt  more  confi- 
dence in  the  accuracy  of  his  topography  when  I  observed 
that  the  front  was  different  from  that  of  its  neighbour  on 
either  side. 


ST.  GEORGE'S,  SOUTHWARK,  AND  THE  MARSHALSEA  GATE. 

(Fiom  Huglison's  "London,"  1807.) 


WITH  DICKENS  TO  MARSHALSEA     33 

"  When  Dickens  came  here  in  1857,  he  found  the 
front  court  of  the  prison  turned  into  a  butter  shop. 
That  house  covers  the  site  of  that  court.  I've  looked 
into  this  matter  very  carefully,"  the  enthusiast  went 
on,  with  growing  earnestness,  "  and  I'm  quite  satisfied 
that  the  gate  of  the  prison  stood  flush  with  the  houses 
that  are  now  Numbers  209  and  213.  Behind  this  gate 
was  an  open  space.  This  was  the  courtyard  Dickens 
speaks  of,  and  at  the  end  of  it  was  a  lodge,  and  this 
gave  entrance  to  the  prison.  Dickens  tells  us  " — here 
the  sheaf  of  memoranda  came  into  requisition  once 
again — "he  tells  us  that  on  the  night  when  Arthur 
Clennam  saw  Little  Dorrit  home,  she  flitted  in  at  the 
open  outer  gate  and  little  courtyard  of  the  Marshalsea. 
She  flitted  in,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield,  putting  back  his 
memoranda  with  one  hand  and  pointing  to  Numbers 
209  and  213  Borough  High  Street  with  the  other,  "  be- 
tween those  two  houses ;  and  it  was  there  that  Dickens 
himself  used  to  flit  in  nearly  eighty  years  ago." 

NOTE. — Since  the  above  chapter  was  printed  Mr.  Fairfield  has 
obtained  access  to  the  Marshalsea  register,  and  has  learned  there- 
from that  Dickens'  father  entered  the  prison  on  the  20th  of 
February,  1824,  and  was  discharged  on  the  28th  of  the  following 
May.  On  hearing  from  my  friend  that  the  register  showed  that  the 
discharge  was  obtained  under  the  then  Insolvent  Debtors'  Act  I  was 
able,  by  reference  to  the  "London  Gazette"  of  1824,  to  ascertain 
that  the  petition  of  John  Dickens,  "formerly  of  Portsmouth, 
Hants,  afterwards  of  Chatham,  Kent,  then  of  Eayham  Street, 
Camden-town,  Middlesex,  and  late  of  Gower  Place  North  in  the 
same  County,  a  clerk  in  the  Navy -Pay- Office  "  was  answered  for 
hearing  at  the  Old  Bailey  on  the  27th  of  May.  Readers  of  "  David 
Copperfield "  will  remember  that  Mr.  Micawber  took  the  benefit 
of  the  Act,  and  that  he,  too,  was  not  set  free  until  the  day  after 
the  hearing  of  his  petition — "  some  fees  were  to  be  settled  and  some 
formalities  observed  before  he  could  be  actually  released  ".  The 
prison  club,  it  will  be  remembered,  received  him  with  transport 
on  his  return  from  court,  and  held  an  harmonic  meeting  that 
evening  in  his  honour.  It  appears  by  the  Marshalsea  register 
that  the  fees  paid  by  John  Dickens  amounted  to  ten  and  tenpence. 
— C.  T.,  JUNB,  1910. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  BANKSIDE  VISITED 

WE  made  our  way  up  the  Borough  High  Street,  intend- 
ing to  cross  the  river  by  London  Bridge.  I  could  not 
resist  taking  my  companion  down  Layton's  Buildings, 
the  turning  next  to  Angel  Court,  for  the  purpose  of 
showing  him  its  queer  little  row  of  two-storeyed  houses 
festooned  with  Virginia-creeper.  These  small  dwellings 
with  their  front  yards,  that  were  once  no  doubt  gay 
with  cottage  flowers,  look  strangely  out  of  place  within 
a  few  feet  of  such  a  roaring  commercial  thoroughfare  as 
the  Borough  High  Street. 

We  lingered  too,  now  and  again,  to  investigate  some 
of  the  narrow  yards  on  the  east  side,  that  were  once  the 
entrances  to  the  famous  hostelries  whose  names  they 
still  bear.  One  of  these — George  Yard — yet  leads  to  its 
old  tavern ;  and  though  that  tavern  be  now  shorn  of 
some  of  its  ancient  glories,  it  still  presents  an  imposing 
appearance,  with  its  long  rows  of  windows  and  its  two- 
storeyed  gallery,  in  which  the  bells,  that  of  old  used  to 
jangle  so  often  and  so  fretfully,  now  hang  silent  and 
undisturbed. 

We  came  at  length  within  sight  of  London  Bridge. 
On  our  left  was  St.  Saviour's,  and  we  paused  at  the  top 
of  the  steps  which  lead  down  to  it. 

"  You  know  the  church,  I  suppose — St.  Mary  Overy  ?  " 
I  said. 

"Oh,  yes,"  was  the  indifferent  answer,  "I've  been 
over  it.  It's  a  show  place ;  everybody  goes  there." 

I  remembered  that  Eobert  Harvard,  the  father  of  the 
founder  of  Harvard  University,  was  buried  there,  and 

34  " 


THE  BANKSIDE  VISITED  35 

I  felt  no  doubt  that  the  fact  was  mentioned  in  all  Ameri- 
can guides  to  London.  I  had  noticed,  that  if  any  place 
were  supposed  to  be  of  peculiar  interest  to  Americans, 
my  friend  always  fought  shy  of  it ;  so  his  answer  did  not 
surprise  me. 

"  And  the  Bankside — do  you  know  that?  "  I  inquired. 

"  The  Bankside — no,  I  haven't  seen  it,"  he  answered 
meditatively ;  and  then  with  a  quickened  interest 
he  went  on,  "  I've  read  of  it,  of  course — Shakespeare 
and  the  old  playhouses.  But  I  didn't  know  that  there 
was  anything  left  to  see." 

"You  come  with  me,"  said  I,  and  I  led  him  down 
the  stairs  and  round  the  churchyard.  I  was  on  familiar 
ground. 

"  This  is  Winchester  Yard,"  I  announced,  when  after 
following  the  railings  to  the  south-west  corner  of  the 
churchyard  we  had  crossed  the  road  in  front  and  dived 
down  Winchester  Street  and  the  street  which  turns  out 
of  it  on  the  right;  "it  is  said  to  be  the  site  of  the 
courtyard  of  Winchester  House." 

I  did  not  dare  to  speak  more  positively ;  for  though  I 
had  known  the  Bankside  for  many  years,  and  had  read 
a  good  deal  about  it  in  a  desultory  way,  I  did  not  feel 
strong  enough  to  be  put  to  the  question,  and  called  upon 
to  give  chapter  and  verse  for  my  knowledge. 

"  The  Bishops  of  Winchester  had  a  palace  here,"  I 
went  on ;  "  they  had  a  prison  too,  it  was  called  the 
Clink." 

"Ah,  they  have  the  word  in  your  army  still.  It  was 
used  several  times  in  the  conversation  with  the  elephant." 

"  What  elephant  ?" 

"  THE  elephant — '  My  Lord  the  Elephant,'  that  Mul- 
vaney  fell  in  with  after  he  had  been  exercising  his 
'  handicraftfulness '  upon  Sergeant  Kearney's  beak. — 
1  'Twas  a  fine  big  nose,  and  well  it  paid  for  a  little 
groomiri,'  "  quoted  Mr.  Fairfield  dreamily. 

I  recognized  the  allusion  now,  and  I  joined  him  in  his 
solemn  mirth. 

"  We  shall  see  Clink  Street  presently,"  said  I,  to 
bring  us  back  to  our  muttons.  "  When  I  first  knew  this 


86    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

yard  there  was  a  row  of  houses  on  the  west  side,  and 
the  corner  house  to  the  north  was  a  tavern." 

Mr.  Fairfield  surveyed  the  open  space  to  which  his 
attention  was  directed  and  made  no  remark.  It  cer- 
tainly was  dreary  of  aspect,  and  the  buildings  round  it 
were  singularly  uninteresting.  We  retraced  our  steps 
and  continued  our  circuit  of  the  churchyard.  This  led 
as  to  Church  Street,  and  a  few  paces  northward  brought 
us  to  the  queer  little  dock,  that  still  bears  the  name 
which  the  old  church  bore,  till  bluff  Harry  broke  into 
the  spence  and  turned  the  monks  adrift.  The  quaint- 
ness  of  the  spot  and  the  refreshing  and  most  unexpected 
river  view  which  it  opened  up,  rekindled  my  friend's 
interest. 

The  dock  was  so  narrow  that  the  space  it  occupied 
was  a  mere  chink  between  two  lofty  buildings,  which 
rose  straight  out  of  the  water.  Unfortunately,  the  tide 
was  so  low  that  the  slimy  bottom  was  visible ;  but 
ahead  lay  the  river  sparkling  in  the  sun,  and  a  fresh 
breeze  from  the  north-east  blew  in  our  faces.  We  had 
been  so  hemmed  in  by  brick  and  mortar  all  the  after- 
noon that  we  were  glad  to  lean  our  elbows  on  the  low 
wall  that  separated  the  dock  from  Church  Street,  and 
drink  in  the  prospect. 

'"St.  Mary  Overy  Dock,'  "  said  my  companion,  read- 
ing from  a  board  on  our  right.  "  St.  Mary  Overy  Dock  ! 
That's  picturesque." 

"  '  This  dock  is  a  free  landing-place,  at  which  the 
parishioners  of  St.  Saviour's  parish  are  entitled  to  land 
goods  free  of  toll, '  "  he  continued,  reading  from  the 
board.  "  If  I  were  a  parishioner,"  he  said,  smiling,  "  I 
should  make  a  point  of  exercising  the  privilege,  even  if 
the  authorities  had  to  pull  down  this  wall  to  make  way 
for  my  cargo.  For  all  our  sakes,  I  hope  that  tunnel 
isn't  in  use  now,"  he  broke  off,  pointing  to  the  mouth 
of  an  old  brick  drain,  which  entered  the  dock  from 
Church  Street,  and  which  at  the  then  state  of  the  tide 
was  open  to  our  view. 

We  turned  westward,  and  presently  entered  one  of 
the  oddest  streets  in  London.  It  was  of  no  great  width, 


THE  BANKSIDE  VISITED  37 

and  on  each  side  of  its  granite  causeway  ran  a  lofty  row 
of  buildings,  pierced  with  heavily-framed  grimy  windows, 
rusty  gratings  and  huge  doors.  Over  our  heads  ran 
many  bridges  connecting  the  upper  storeys  ;  and  on 
some  of  the  sills  and  ledges  of  the  singularly  flat  brick- 
work, the  flour-dust  lay  so  thickly  that  blades  of  grass 
were  sprouting  out  of  it. 

"  That  is  Stoney  Street,"  I  said,  pointing  to  a  narrow, 
rudely-paved  street  that  ran  southward  out  of  the  gloomy 
thoroughfare  through  which  we  were  making  our  way, 
and  led  apparently  to  a  series  of  railway  arches. 

"  A  very  appropriate  name,"  admitted  Mr.  Fairfield 
with  cheerful  alacrity. 

"  Pennant  says,"  I  continued,  "  that  it  is  probably  a 
continuation  of  the  Roman  Watling  Street,  and  that  in 
his  time  traces  of  the  causeway  existed  on  the  other  side 
of  the  river.  Stoney  Street  used,  of  course,  to  go  down 
to  the  water's  edge." 

"It  is  a  pity,  sir,  that  it  does  not  go  there  now," 
was  my  client's  answer,  as  he  gazed  on  the  forbid- 
ding pile  of  brick  and  mortar  that  lay  opposite  its 
mouth. 

As  we  continued  our  way  along  the  street  with  the 
overhead  bridges,  it  grew  drearier  and  drearier,  and  Mr. 
Fairfield  gazed  about  him  with  a  smile  which  he  did  not 
attempt  to  conceal. 

"  There  must  be  a  delightful  view  of  the  river  from 
the  back  windows  yonder,"  said  he,  with  a  wave  of  his 
right  hand. 

"This,"  I  remarked  solemnly,  "is  Clink  Street. 
Shakespeare  is  said  to  (have  lived  here." 

As  I  played  this  trump  card  I  watched  my  com- 
panion's face. 

The  smile  disappeared  as  he  stopped  and  looked  about 
him ;  then  it  came  back  and  broadened. 

"I  hope,  sir,  he  lived  on  the  river  side  of  it,"  he  ob- 
served. "  The  back  rooms  may  have  been  almost 
habitable." 

This  flippancy  was  inexcusable  in  the  enthusiast  from 
Chicago,  but  I  bore  it  without  protest — the  street  was  so 


38    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

depressing.  We  reached  the  end  of  it  at  last,  and  here 
the  prospect  opened  a  little. 

"  '  Bankend,'  "  said  my  companion.  The  name  was 
written  up  on  one  of  the  houses  which  fronted  us,  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  thoroughfare  that  ran  to  right 
and  left.  The  house  at  the  north  corner  was  a  tavern 
of  old-fashioned  and  comfortable  appearance. 

"  The  Bankside  ends  there,"  I  explained,  pointing  to 
that  corner. 

"This  looks  more  promising,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield, 
when  he  saw  the  tavern,  and  saw  also  that  its  north 
front  looked  upon  the  river ;  and  he  moved  towards  it. 
I  delayed  him  for  a  moment  and  pointed  to  the  left. 

"  That  is  Barclay  &  Perkins'  brewery.  It  covers  the 
site  of  Shakespeare's  theatre." 

My  companion  was  really  interested  now.  "  I  think 
I  have  read  that  the  Globe  was  a  sort  of  rotunda,"  he 
said  musingly.  "  Shakespeare  refers  to  it  somewhere 
as  a  wooden  0 — or  perhaps  that  was  the  Curtain  Theatre. 
You  don't  know  exactly  where  the  site  was?" 

I  did  not  know.  I  was  not  even  sure  that  any  one 
knew. 

"  The  brewery's  a  big  place,  I  suppose,"  was  his  next 
remark. 

"Immense,  I  believe.  It  must  have  destroyed  many 
landmarks  on  the  Bankside.  There  was  the  Deadman's 
Place  burial-ground,  for  instance.  The  street  in  front 
of  us  was  known  as  Deadman's  Place  until  quite  modern 
times.  Pennant  says  that  it  got  its  name  from  the 
number  of  dead  interred  there  in  the  great  plague.  And 
there  was  a  more  recent  burial-ground  here,  or  here- 
abouts, which  was  called  after  the  street.  The  brewery 
has  swallowed  it  up,  though  it  was  a  place  of  some  note. 
It  was  full  of  Nonconformist  ministers." 

"  Then,  it  is  not  the  invariable  custom  in  this  country 
to  bury  the  pastor  under  his  pulpit,"  said  my  friend. 
He  was  thinking  of  the  Eeverend  Eowland  Hill,  and  he 
was  pleased  to  be  merry. 

We  moved  on  to  the  river.  Our  view  from  the  em- 
bankment on  which  we  stood  was  somewhat  impeded 


THE  BANKSIDE  VISITED  39 

by  a  forest  of  cranes,  which  rose  out  of  the  wharves, 
that  stretched  before  us,  and  by  the  masts  and  rigging 
of  the  small  craft  moored  beside  them ;  but  after  the 
depressing  gloom  of  Clink  Street  any  view  of  the  river 
was  welcome.  Not  far  ahead  of  us,  the  prospect  west- 
ward was  almost  closed  by  the  span  of  Southwark 
Bridge ;  but  high  above  lifted  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's. 

"  This  embankment  is  old,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  my  com- 
panion. 

"I  have  read  somewhere  that  it  was  made  by  the 
Romans,"  was  my  wary  answer. 

"  This  is  Horseshoe  Alley,"  I  said,  directing  my 
client's  attention  to  a  passage  that  ran  under  the  ware- 
houses on  our  left  hand.  "  I  believe  it  was  here  in 
Shakespeare's  time." 

We  went  down  it  and  emerged  into  Park  Street, 
which  for  some  distance  runs  almost  parallel  with  the 
Bank. 

"  This  street  was  certainly  here  in  Shakespeare's  time. 
It  was  called  Maid  Lane  then,  and  the  Globe  Theatre 
stood  a  little  to  the  south-east  of  where  we  are  standing." 

I  allowed  this  fact  to  sink  into  Mr.  Fairfield's  mind, 
and  then  I  led  him  back  to  the  river.  He  stopped  for 
a  moment  near  the  mouth  of  the  alley  to  have  a  last 
look  round  ;  the  expression  of  his  countenance  was  any- 
thing but  radiant.  My  eye  caught  the  words  "  Armour 
&  Co.,  Chicago,"  on  a  neighbouring  door-plate. 

"  '  When  I  was  at  home  I  was  in  a  better  place,'  "  I 
suggested,  pointing  to  this  inscription. 

He  took  my  meaning  and  laughed  quite  mirthfully. 
"  I  am  quite  content,"  he  said,  following  out  the  quota- 
tion in  his  own  mind ;  but  never  a  word  in  praise  of  the 
Bankside  did  he  utter. 

' '  You  know  this  bridge  ? ' '  We  had  reached  the  stairs 
on  the  west  side  of  Southwark  Bridge,  when  I  asked 
this  question. 

"  Oh,  yes !  It's  the  Iron  Bridge  of  '  Little  Dorrit '. 
It  was  here  she  refused  Young  John,  and  it  was  here 
Old  Nandy  told  her  on  his  birthday  what  he  would  do 
if  his  ship  came  home.  I  rather  think,  too,"  went  on 


40    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

Mr.  Fairfield,  once  again  consulting  his  memoranda, 
"  I  rather  think,  it's  mentioned  somewhere  in  that  auto- 
biography. When  Dickens  was  at  the  blacking  factory 
he  used  to  wait  on  this  bridge  for  the  servant  girl  who 
worked  for  the  family  in  the  Marshalsea.  Yes,  here  it 
is.  No — I'm  wrong ;  it  was  by  London  Bridge  he  used 
to  meet  her." 

There  was  nothing  at  all  interesting  in  the  buildings 
that  lay  on  our  left  hand.  Many  of  them  showed  a 
strong  family  resemblance  to  the  Clink  Street  abomina- 
tions, and  there  was  something  of  a  waterside  disorder 
everywhere.  Past  Southwark  Bridge,  however,  I  had 
a  view  to  show  him. 

I  led  my  companion  to  the  mouth  of  another  narrow 
passage — it  could  not  have  been  more  than  four  feet 
wide — that  ran  southward  into  Park  Street. 

"This  is  Hose  Alley,"  I  said.  "I  suppose  you  have 
heard  of  the  Kose  Theatre?  " 

"  It  flourished  at  about  the  same  time  as  the  Globe, 
I  believe,"  was  the  answer.  "  And  do  you  suppose  this 
passage  led  to  it?" 

I  nodded.  "  So  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  ascertain, 
the  theatre  stood  a  few  feet  south  of  this  entrance." 

Mr.  Fairfield  moved  some  paces  down  the  alley,  and 
looked  about  him  ;  then  he  returned  to  me,  pursing  up 
his  mouth.  It  was  easy  to  see,  that  he  found  it  difficult 
to  associate  that  forlorn  prospect  with  the  site  of  the 
old  playhouse.  I  was  not  disposed  to  be  hard  on  him ; 
for  all  the  buildings  within  sight  were  of  a  most  com- 
monplace character,  and  there  was  a  cleared  space  with 
a  hoarding  round  it,  which  gave  the  alley  an  almost  de- 
solate appearance. 

We  had  not  proceeded  many  yards  on  our  journey 
before  my  client  stopped  and  pointed  to  a  gateway. 

"  Bear  Garden  Wharf  !  "  he  ejaculated,  reading  from 
the  inscription  on  it. 

"  We  are  near  the  site  of  the  old  Bear  Garden,"  I  said. 

The  next  turning  was  wider  than  Rose  Alley,  and 
written  up  was  the  name  "Bear  Garden,  S.E." 

We  turned  down  it,  and  presently  it  opened  out  into  a 


THE  BANKSIDE  VISITED          41 

small  close.  This  was  surrounded  by  shabby  buildings, 
and  on  our  right  stood  a  shabby  tavern — the  White 
Bear. 

"  This  place  is  the  site  of  the  Bear  Garden,"  I  said. 

"  The  exact  spot  ?  "  queried  my  companion. 

I  felt  on  pretty  firm  ground  here;  so  I  answered 
boldly,  Yes,  and  went  on  to  tell  him  that  Strype  was 
my  authority. 

"  So  this  is  where  Queen  Elizabeth  used  to  come," 
said  Mr.  Fairfield.  "  I  suppose,"  he  continued  musingly, 
his  eyes  fixed' on  the  White  Bear,  "there  must  have 
been  a  tavern  here  from  the  beginning :  was  there  ever 
a  place  of  amusement  without  one  ?  The  White  Bear 
seems  a  likely  name  for  that  tavern ;  I  wonder  if  they 
could  tell  us  anything  inside  ?  " 

We  entered  the  bar ;  and  seating  himself  upon  a  low 
stool,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  meant  to  take  his  ease 
in  his  inn,  he  asked  for  a  glass  of  sherry  and  bitters.  It 
was  a  little  bit  of  a  place,  bearing  no  evidence  of  hoar 
antiquity. 

"  This  is  an  old  house  of  yours,"  he  remarked  to  the 
lady  behind  the  counter. 

"  We  haven't  been  here  long,  sir,"  was  the  answer. 
"  But  it  is  an  old  place ;  I  daresay  it's  nearly  two  hun- 
dred years  old." 

This  was  not  nearly  old  enough  for  my  friend's 
purpose ;  but  it  evidently  exhausted  mine  hostess's 
knowledge,  and  he  had  no  spirit  to  pursue  the  conver- 
sation. 

"Anyhow,  the  name  is  good,"  he  remarked  when  we 
got  outside.  "Did  you  see  it  printed  on  that  jug  on 
the  counter — '  The  White  Bear,  Bankside '  ?  Not  an 
unlikely  address,  sir,  for  a  letter  of  Shakespeare's  time." 

After  this  we  rambled  on  in  silence.  We  passed  some 
more  uninteresting  brickwork,  and  some  more  dreary 
open  spaces  surrounded  by  hoardings;  but  Mr.  Fair- 
field  kept  his  eyes  glued  on  the  building-line,  and 
seemed  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  on  our  right  ran  the 
open  river. 

A  little  west  of  the  Bear  Garden  lies  Emerson  Street, 
which  is  a  thoroughfare  of  quite  respectable  width. 


42    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

Some  fifty  yards  farther  on,  the  roadway  of  the  Bank- 
side  widens  out,  and  there  are  no  objects  on  the  water- 
side to  interfere  with  the  view.  And  a  stimulating 
prospect  it  was  that  sunny  evening.  The  broad  stream, 
spanned  by  the  two  bridges  at  Blackfriars,  stretched 
before  us  all  light  and  motion ;  and  facing  us  on  the 
opposite  bank  rose  the  dome  and  campaniles  of  St. 
Paul's,  towering  above  the  meaner  buildings  that  hid 
the  body  of  the  cathedral  from  our  view.  Here  and 
there,  to  right  and  left,  the  tower  or  spire  of  one  of 
the  City  churches  reared  its  head.  The  scene  was 
familiar  to  me  ;  and  had  my  companion  been  in  a  more 
receptive  mood,  I  should  have  told  him  how  glorious  it 
was  at  sunset,  as  I  had  often  seen  it,  with  the  western 
sky  all  gold  and  crimson,  and  the  bosom  of  the  water 
gleaming  rosy. 

He  seemed  little  disposed  to  find  anything  to  com- 
mend on  the  Bankside,  but  there  was  no  denying  the 
majesty  of  the  prospect  that  lay  before  us.  He  took  off 
his  hat  to  enjoy  the  fresh  breeze,  and  for  some  time  he 
stood  silent,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  St.  Paul's. 

"  I'll  be  bound  there  isn't  one  Londoner  in  ten  thou- 
sand who  has  ever  been  on  the  Bankside,  or  seen  this 
view,"  he  remarked  at  length. 

I  did  not  demur  to  this  assertion.  Perhaps  the  lan- 
guage was  a  trifle  hyperbolical,  but  I  knew  full  well  that 
the  average  Londoner  was  ignorant  of  the  very  exist- 
ence of  an  embankment  east  of  Blackfriars. 

"What's  this  tiny  little  court?"  asked  my  client, 
stopping  short  at  an  entry  not  a  yard  in  width,  which 
we  came  to  almost  immediately  after  we  had  resumed 
our  progress  westward. 

I  did  not  know ;  so  we  walked  down  it.  The  way 
broadened  a  little  as  soon  as  we  had  got  beyond  the 
depth  of  the  buildings,  between  which  it  ran,  but  no- 
where was  it  wider  than  four  feet.  At  the  south  end  of 
it  the  name  was  written  up — "Cardinal  Cap  Alley" — 
and  here  was  a  narrow  roadway,  running  east  and  west, 
called  Skin  Market  Place. 

"  Cardinal  Cap  Alley,  and   leading   to  Skin  Market 


THE  BANKSIDE  VISITED          43 

Place,"  ejaculated  Mr.  Fairfield.  "  Did  ever  mortal 
man  hear  anything  more  mediaeval  ?  Do  you  suppose 
that  people  ever  lived  in  these  rat-hole  passages?  " 

"  I  don't  think  that  when  Shakespeare  lived  near  the 
Bank  there  were  any  streets  of  houses  behind  the  row 
that  faced  the  river.  Very  likely,  the  sites  of  these 
narrow  alleys  were  footpaths  leading  from  the  Bank  to 
the  open  country  behind.  There  were  many  other 
houses,  no  doubt,  but  they  stood  in  little  knots,  with 
fields  and  orchards  about  them." 

"  How  on  earth  did  a  place  get  such  a  name  as  Cardinal 
Cap  Alley?"  was  the  next  question. 

"  Perhaps  it  led  to  a  tavern,"  I  suggested.  I  knew 
that  old  taverns  had  a  fascination  for  him,  and  I 
thought  that  perhaps  the  notion  of  there  having  been 
one  called  the  Cardinal's  Cap  would  cheer  him  up 
a  little. 

"  These  are  positively  old  houses,"  he  remarked  joy- 
fully, when  we  had  retraced  our  steps  to  the  embank- 
ment. He  was  gazing  at  the  Phoenix  Iron  Wharf — 
three  red-brick  houses  with  tiled  roofs,  adjoining  the 
alley  on  the  west. 

"  This  is  the  first  decent-looking  building  that  we've 
seen  on  this  side  of  the  water  since  we  turned  out  of  the 
Borough  High  Street,"  he  continued,  as  he  adjusted  his 
pince-nez.  He  had  forgotten  the  church. 

"  Can  you  make  out  what  is  written  up  there  ?  "  he 
asked  suddenly,  pointing  to  the  head  of  a  water-pipe, 
not  much  below  the  level  of  the  eaves. 

"It  looks,"  I  said  after  a  prolonged  scrutiny,  "like 
an  H  over  a  B  and  an  S — probably  the  B.  S.  means 
Bankside,"  I  hazarded  as  a  guess — "  and  a  little  lower 
down  there  is  on  one  side  of  the  pipe  17  and  on  the  other 
12." 

"  Seventeen  hundred  and  twelve !  So  the  house  is 
nearly  two  hundred  years  old,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield  glee- 
fully. "  I  wish,  though,  it  went  back  to  Shakespeare's 
time.  Still  it  must  have  seen  a  good  deal." 

"  It  saw  Nelson's  coffin  pass  on  its  way  from  Green- 
wich Hospital  to  Whitehall,  at  all  events,"  I  suggested. 


44    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

My  companion  did  not  heed  me,  for  his  eye8  were 
glued  on  the  water-pipe. 

"  There  is  something  over  those  initials,"  he  said ; 
"  some  device  or  other." 

I  stared  hard,  and  at  last  saw  what  he  referred  to.  I 
was  about  to  say  that  it  looked  to  me  like  a  crown,  when 
I  felt  my  friend's  clutch  on  my  arm. 

"  It's  a  cardinal's  cap !  "  he  gasped. 

We  had  met  very  few  people  earlier  in  our  ramble,  ex- 
cept in  the  Borough  High  Street,  and  on  the  Bankside  we 
had  met  nobody.  But  my  friend's  prolonged  inspection  of 
the  old  houses  had  attracted  the  attention  of  some  of 
the  natives,  and  by  this  time  a  knot  of  three  or  four 
of  them  was  standing  at  his  elbow. 

"It's  a  crown,  sir,"  said  one  of  them  very  civilly. 

"  It  looks  to  me  like  a  cardinal's  cap,"  retorted  Mr. 
Fairfield,  turning  to  him  with  some  heat. 

"It's  a  crown  right  enough,"  said  another  bystander. 
"  All  the  houses  about  here  was  Crown  property  once. 
Over  there,"  he  went  on,  pointing  to  a  cleared  space, 
a  few  paces  eastward  of  where  we  were  standing,  "  there 
was  Queen  Anne's  guardroom " 

"And  prison,"  broke  in  the  native  who  had  spoken 
first.  "  You  should  'a  seen  the  bars  there — close  bars 
they  was." 

"  Queen  Anne's  prison  and  guardroom ! "  ejaculated 
Mr.  Fairfield,  forgetting  for  the  moment  all  about  the 
device  on  the  water-pipe.  "  Do  you  know  anything 
about  this? "  he  inquired,  turning  to  me. 

On  my  shaking  my  head,  he  fished  out  his  memoranda 
and  gravely  made  some  notes,  wholly  undisturbed  by 
the  presence  of  the  bystanders.  Then,  with  a  polite 
good-day,  he  moved  on. 

When  we  came  to  Moss  Alley,  my  friend  read  out  the 
name  with  a  mournful  air.  "  Dear,  dear !  "  he  muttered, 
as  if  grieving  over  the  changes  which  time  had  wrought 
in  the  neighbourhood. 

Pike  Gardens  was  the  name  of  the  next  turning ; 
and  I  could  not  refrain  from  remarking  that  the  old 
maps  showed  that  there  were  pike  ponds  here  in  Eliza- 


THE  BANKSIDE  VISITED  45 

beth's  time.  Mr.  Fairfield  again  said,  "Dear,  dear!" 
and  seemed  sunk  in  woe. 

West  of  the  Pike  Gardens,  there  are  buildings  on  the 
north  side  of  the  roadway,  which  hide  the  river  from 
the  traveller's  gaze.  We  had  only  one  more  turning  to 
pass  before  we  reached  the  end  of  the  Bank. 

"That  is  Love  Lane,"  I  said  cheerfully,  when  we 
came  up  to  that  turning. 

He  read  the  name  for  himself,  gazed  down  the  narrow 
entry  that  ran  between  two  dull  piles  of  brickwork,  and 
uttered  something  like  a  snort  of  indignation. 

"  The  romantic  names  of  these  sordid  little  slits  stink 
in  the  nostrils,"  he  remarked  in  explanation  of  this 
strange  conduct.  "But  we  ought  to  be  thankful,"  he 
went  on  more  cheerfully,  as  we  resumed  our  walk ;  "  we 
ought  to  be  thankful  there  are  no  dwellings  in  them. 
They  are  only  passages  now.  I  strongly  suspect  they 
were  rookeries  at  one  time." 

We  had  now  reached  the  end  of  Bankside,  and  were 
within  a  few  yards  of  Messrs.  Epps'  cocoa-works,  round 
which  Holland  Street  curls. 

"The  Falcon  tavern  stood  there,"  I  said,  pointing 
across  the  way  to  the  entrance  to  the  Falcon  draw-dock, 
which  is  almost  exactly  opposite  the  cocoa-works. 
"  Pennant  says  it  was  the  favourite  haunt  of  Shakespeare 
and  his  friends."  Mr.  Fairfield  stared  across  the  road, 
but  said  nothing. 

We  followed  the  curve  of  the  large  red-brick  building ; 
on  our  right  was  the  dead  wall  of  the  railway  sheds  and 
offices. 

"I've  no  doubt  this  is  a  very  old  way,"  I  remarked. 
"  It  used  to  be  called  the  Green  Walk  ;  the  calling  it  a 
part  of  Holland  Street  is  comparatively  recent." 

"  The  Green  Walk  !  "  snarled  my  friend,  scanning  the 
thoroughfare  with  an  eye  that  was  positively  malignant. 
"  Really  the  streets  about  here  are  like  Falstaff  on  his 
deathbed ;  they  babble  of  green  fields.  That  is  not 
original,  sir,"  he  hastened  to  add ;  "I  came  across  it  in 
an  article  of  George  Augustus  Sala's  years  ago ;  but  till 
to-day  I  didn't  know  how  happy  it  was This  is  not 


46    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

so  bad,  though,"  he  broke  off,  pointing  to  the  very  old 
house  with  the  wrought-iron  railings  that  stands  next 
to  the  cocoa- works.  "  I  daresay  the  place  was  a  green 
walk  when  that  was  built." 

I  held  my  peace,  for  I  knew  there  was  something 
better  not  many  paces  ahead — Hopton's  Almshouses,  in 
fact. 

When  we  came  on  them,  the  grumbler  was  silenced 
for  the  time  being.  We  stopped  before  the  low  brick 
houses  with  white  stone  dressings  and  tiled  roofs,  which 
stand  back  from  the  roadway  in  a  grassy  courtyard, 
shaded  by  dwarf  plane  trees  and  guarded  by  high  iron 
railings.  The  place  is  picturesque  at  any  time,  an 
oasis  in  a  desert  of  grimness  ;  and  on  that  fine  evening 
it  was  indescribably  quaint  and  peaceful.  The  sun  was 
low  in  the  heavens,  and  it  gave  a  mellow  warmth  to  the 
old  tiles  and  brickwork  and  a  vivid  brightness  to  the 
green  lawns.  Some  of  the  inmates  of  both  sexes  were 
sunning  themselves  outside  the  houses,  and  a  man  was 
mowing  the  grass  near  the  middle  of  the  quadrangle. 
The  scene  reminded  me  vaguely  of  some  famous  picture, 
and  I  tried  in  vain  to  recall  the  details  to  my  mind.1 

We  gazed  for  some  time  through  the  railings,  watch- 
ing the  mower  and  the  listless  figures  on  the  benches. 
Before  we  resumed  our  journey,  my  companion  with  the 
assistance  of  his  pince-nez,  was  able  to  read  the  simple 
inscription  upon  the  middle  house  opposite  to  us — 
"  Chas.  Hopton,  Esq.,  Sole  Founder  of  this  Charity. 
Anno  1752." 

We  turned  the  corner  of  Holland  Street  into  South- 
wark  Street,  and  saw  the  Blackfriars  Koad  in  front  of 
us.  We  walked  along  in  silence.  My  thoughts  were 
running  on  the  contrast  between  the  listless  figures 
basking  in  the  sun  and  the  mower  with  his  scythe. 
His  back  was  turned  to  the  roadway,  but  there  was 
youth  in  every  line  of  him,  and  there  was  something 
very  athletic  and  vigorous  in  his  action,  while  they 
were  all  far  advanced  in  decrepitude  and  extreme  old 

1  Frederick  Walker's  "  Harbour  of  Refuge  ". 


THE  BANKSIDE  VISITED  47 

age.  They  seemed  to  be  watching  him,  but  without 
interest  and  with  lack-lustre  eyes.  We  were  crossing 
Blackfriars  Bridge  when  my  meditations  were  inter- 
rupted by  my  companion.  His  thoughts  had  been  run- 
ning in  the  same  channel  as  my  own. 

"I  was  wondering,"  he  said,  "whether  any  of  those 
old  people  were  thinking  of  that  line  of  Longfellow's — 
'  There  is  a  reaper  whose  name  is  Death '." 


CHAPTEE  IV 
THE  BANKSIDE  REVISITED 

Two  or  three  weeks  after  our  visit  to  the  Bankside,  I 
dined  with  Mr.  Fairfield  in  Soho,  at  a  restaurant  that 
was  once  the  dwelling  of  Edmund  Burke.  We  had 
made  a  leisurely  progress  through  the  banquet,  which 
consisted  of  five  or  six  hors  d'ceuvrea,  followed  by  a  clear 
soup,  a  sole  colbert,  an  entree  of  beef  garnished  with 
vegetables,  a  dish  of  macaroni,  a  dish  of  beans,  roast 
duck  and  salad  and  an  ice.  In  my  honour,  a  full  fiasco 
of  chianti  had  been  ordered ;  and  by  the  time  the  coffee 
and  a  liqueur  were  on  their  way  to  us  the  mighty  flagon 
showed  by  the  ease  with  which  one  could  lift  it  that  due 
attention  had  been  paid  to  its  contents. 

"  I  like  this  place,"  said  my  host,  as  he  leaned  back 
in  his  chair,  and  took  yet  another  of  the  crisp  little 
radishes  that  we  had  been  playing  with  between  the 
courses  ever  since  the  beginning  of  the  meal.  "  I  like 
the  street,  for  one  thing.  Boswell  used  to  lodge  here  ; 
Burke  lived  here — the  very  spot  on  which  we  are  now 
sitting  was  once  his  garden ;  Dryden  lived  here,  Dr. 
Johnson  and  the  Club  met  here,  and  I  know  from 
Forster  that  one  of  Dickens'  uncles  lodged  here,  and 
that  Dickens  visited  him.  I  suppose  he  had  that  house 
in  his  mind  when  he  described  Mr.  Jaggers'  dark-brown 
rooms  in  Gerrard  Street.  And  I  like  the  look  of  the 
place ;  there  are  so  many  of  the  original  houses  left." 

"  We  have  had  a  good  dinner  in  it,  too,"  I  remarked. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  was  the  answer.  "  There  is  something 
neat  and  handsome  about  the  continental  way  of  serv- 

48 


THE  BANKSIDE  REVISITED         49 

ing  you.  And  the  food  is  much  better  and  more  varied 
than  you  can  get  for  the  same  price  from  a  native  caterer, 
either  here  or  in  New  York." 

"  The  drink  is  not  amiss,  either,"  I  hinted. 

"  Oh,  no !  "  said  my  friend  carelessly,  with  a  slight 
wave  of  his  hand,  as  if  that  were  a  detail  not  worthy  of 
mention.  Then  he  helped  himself  to  another  glass  of  the 
chianti,  and  gazed  round  him  at  the  groups  of  diners — 
mostly  foreigners — with  an  expression  of  countenance 
that  was  decidedly  benevolent. 

"  I  am  very  much  indebted  to  you  for  showing  me  the 
Bankside,"  he  said  after  an  interval  of  silence. 

"  I  was  afraid  it  bored  you." 

"  Well,  sir,  there  was  an  out-at-elbows  look  about  the 
place  that  rather  disappointed  me  at  first,  and,  some- 
how, I  found  it  difficult  to  associate  it  with  the  Bank- 
side  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  time ;  but  when  I  came  to 
think  things  over,  the  recollection  of  that  big  river,  so 
close  at  hand  and  so  open,  and  those  passages  with  their 
quaint  names,  took  hold  of  me.  And  the  next  day  I 
found  my  way  back  to  the  place  and  explored  it  pretty 
thoroughly.  Then,  sir,  I  read  Besant's  '  Bell  of  Saint 
Paul's  ' ;  and  then  I  read  it  a  second  time.  After  that, 
I  spent  a  morning  or  two  at  the  British  Museum,  look- 
ing up  some  old  maps  and  finding  out  what  I  could 
about  the  neighbourhood  generally ;  and  the  result  is  " — 
here  his  manner  became  unmistakably  self-conscious — 
"  I've  got  rather  bitten  with  it :  I've  been  there  again — 
more  than  once." 

"  And  is  it  a  cardinal's  cap  on  that  water-pipe  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  is,  but  I'm  not  sure.  Oddly  enough,"  he 
continued,  leaning  forward  and  becoming  confidential, 
"  I  found  on  dipping  into  Pennant's  description  of  the 
Bankside,  that  there  was  a  house  there — not  at  all  a 
pretty  kind  of  house — which  bore  the  sign  of  the  Car- 
dinal's Hat.  There's  something  of  a  coincidence  in 
this,  and  I've  been  wondering  since,  if  that  passage  gave 
access  to  the  house,  and  was  called  after  it.  In  the 
4 


50    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

course  of  time,  the  name  might  easily  get  altered  from 
Cardinal's  Hat  to  Cardinal's  Cap." 

I  had  taken  far  less  of  the  chianti  than  my.  friend 
had,  but  I  was  in  too  genial  a  mood  to  throw  doubt 
upon  this  theory. 

"  If  I'm  right,"  he  went  on,  "  the  device  was 
put  on  the  pipe  because  the  house  was  near  the 
alley.  If  H.,  whoever  he  was,  went  to  the  expense  of 
having  the  initials  of  his  name  and  address,  and  the  date 
when  his  house  was  built,  put  on  the  pipe,  it's  quite 
likely  he  would  have  a  cardinal's  cap  put  on  too." 

"  There's  something  else,"  he  resumed,  as  he  lit  one 
of  the  full-sized  cigars  that  had  been  brought  to  us. 
"  Do  you  remember  the  large  round  red-brick  building 
that  stands  just  opposite  where  Shakespeare's  Falcon 
used  to  be  ?  " 

"  The  cocoa- works  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that's  the  place  I  mean ;  and  I  feel  sure  it  oc- 
cupies the  exact  spot  where  a  mill-pond  used  to  be.  At 
the  Museum  I  found  on  a  survey  of  the  Bankside,  that 
was  made  on  vellum  in  Queen  Elizabeth's  time,  a  mill- 
pond  marked  at  the  top  of  Gravel  Lane,  and  in 
Rocque's  great  plan  of  1746  there  the  pond  was  again ; 
and  I  assure  you,  sir  " — here  he  became  so  impressive, 
that  he  leaned  forward  with  his  elbows  on  the  table  and 
emphasised  his  disclosure  with  a  wagging  forefinger — 
"  that  cocoa  place — you  remember  what  a  wide  curve 
the  front  has — occupies  the  exact  site  of  that  pond,  and 
follows  the  very  outline  of  it." 

"  That  is  very  probable,"  I  observed,  when  I  had 
thought  the  matter  over.  "  If  the  pond  was  on  the 
west  side  of  the  north  end  of  Gravel  Lane,  and  a  public 
way  or  footpath  ran  round  it  into  the  Green  Walk,  no 
doubt  when  the  pond  was  drained  and  the  owner  wanted 
to  build  on  the  site,  he  would,  if  he  wished  to  make  the 
most  of  his  land,  shape  his  building  so  as  to  cover  the 
whole  of  it." 

"  Of  course  he  would,"  declared  my  host  in  high  glee. 


THE  BANKSIDE  REVISITED         51 

"  And  think,  sir,  what  an  interest  it  gives  to  that  build- 
ing if  you  know  that  it  follows  the  site  of  a  mill-pond 
where  very  likely  the  ostlers  of  the  Falcon  used  to  water 
their  horses,  and  which  Shakespeare  must  have  known 
as  well  as  he  knew  his  own  house.  Sir  Christopher 
Wren  must  have  known  it  too  ;  for  while  he  was  build- 
ing St.  Paul's  he  lived  in  a  house  next  door  to  the 
Falcon." 

"I've  hunted  up  the  Green  Walk  too,"  he  went  on. 
"  You  were  right  when  you  said  it  was  an  old  way. 
I'm  not  sure  it  wasn't  there  in  Shakespeare's  time ;  I 
know  it  was  there  sixty  years  after  his  death ;  and  what's 
rather  odd,  you  can  follow  it  still  from  start  to  finish. 
It  began  at  the  mill-pond  and  went  on  southward,  past 
where  those  almshouses  are,  and  across  where  South- 
wark  Street  runs  now — where  we  turned  off,  I  mean. 
Just  beyond  the  other  side  of  Southwark  Street,  it 
curved  round  westward ;  the  road's  called  Burrell  Street 
now,  and  it  runs  into  the  Blackfriars  Road  and  stops. 
But  the  Walk  used  to  run  straight  across  the  site  of 
the  Blackfriars  Road,  and  then  it  wound  round  to  the 
south  again.  Do  you  remember  those  five  wooden  cot- 
tages looking  on  the  churchyard  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  Well,  the  Green  Walk  ran  by  them."  Mr.  F airfield 
brought  this  out  with  an  emphasis  that  was  quite 
dramatic. 

"  But  they're  in  Collingwood  Street." 

"  Yes,  and  that  runs  into  Charlotte  Street,  fifty  yards 
or  so  west  of  Rowland  Hill's  Chapel,  and  every  yard 
of  it  follows  the  course  of  the  Green  Walk ;  and  the 
south  end  of  Collingwood  Street  is  where  the  Green 
Walk  ended." 

"  Prodigious,"  I  ejaculated,  not  a  little  tickled  by  his 
earnestness. 

"  I  know  it's  all  very  unimportant,"  said  the  enthusi- 
ast, smiling  and  giving  his  head  a  shake ;  "  but  I've 
got  a  lot  of  pleasure  out  of  tracing  that  old  pathway. 


52     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

And  I've  spent  a  lot  of  time  mooning  about  there,  and 
trying  to  recall  what  it  looked  like,  when  it  ran  between 
hedges  and  ditches,  through  green  meadows,  intersected 
by  streams  and  runnels,  with  those  old  cottages  and  a 
few  more  like  them  dotted  here  and  there.  You  know 
what  the  neighbourhood  looks  like  now.  It's  pleasant 
to  fancy  Shakespeare,  slipping  away  from  the  Falcon 
crew  some  summer  evening,  and  strolling  along  that  lane 
as  it  was  in  his  time,  with  the  wild  roses  in  blossom — 
canker-blooms,  he  called  them  : — 

The  canker-blooms  have  full  as  deep  a  dye 

As  the  perfumed  tincture  of  the  roses, 

Hang  on  such  thorns,  and  play  as  wantonly 

When  summer's  breath  their  masked  buds  discloses." 

A  poetical  quotation  from  Mr.  Fairfield  always  gives 
me  pleasure.  Many  reciters  have  an  ugly  trick  of 
making  poetry  sound  like  prose  ;  but  though  lyrical 
numbers  flow  from  his  lips  as  freely  and  spontaneously 
as  his  common  talk,  and  the  ripple  of  the  verse  is  never 
broken,  one's  ear  is  fully  conscious  of  the  end  of  every 
line.  And  if  the  quotation  be  from  Shakespeare,  there 
is  no  mistaking  its  source  :  it  comes  out  perfumed  with 
a  kind  of  reverence. 

As  we  sipped  our  coffee  and  I  thought  over  what  he 
had  told  me,  I  tried  to  call  up  the  Surrey  side  of  our 
recent  pilgrimage  ;  but  instead  of  the  Blackfriars  Road 
and  the  squalid  streets  that  turn  out  of  it,  there  wavered 
before  my  mind's  eye  a  vague  picture  of  flat,  green  water- 
meadows,  from  which  one  saw  across  the  river  the 
London  of  Elizabeth,  all  shadowy  in  a  June  twilight. 

"  The  '  principal  mansion  house  '  of  the  Manor  of 
Paris  Garden  stood  a  little  east  of  those  five  cot- 
tages: about  half-way  between  them  and  the  river," 
said  Mr.  Fairfield.  "  It  was  called  Holland's  Leaguer 
— not  till  after  Shakespeare's  time  though." 

"  Did  you  extend  your  researches  to  that  tavern  at 
the  end  of  Surrey  Row — the  Old  King's  Arms  ?  "  I  was 
beginning  to  get  a  little  bitten  myself. 


THE  BANKSIDE  REVISITED         53 

"  I  did  indeed  !  That  proved  very  interesting.  I'm 
perfectly  satisfied  that  the  site  of  Surrey  How  used  to 
be  called  the  Melancholy  Walk,  and  was  the  northern 
boundary  of  St.  George's  Fields.  That  tavern  stood  at 
the  north-east  corner  of  the  Fields.  At  one  time  it  had  a 
garden  on  the  south  side,  that  ran  right  into  them.  Do 
you  know  anything  about  St.  George's  Fields  ?  " 

"  I've  heard  the  name." 

"  They  stretched  a  long  way  south  and  west  of  that 
corner.  They  belonged  to  the  City  of  London  as  part 
of  the  manor  of  Southwark.  Gerard  mentions  them  in 
his  'Herbal'.  That  was  published  in  1597— Shake- 
speare was  thirty-three  then.  Gerard  said  he  hadn't 
found  such  plenty  of  water-violets  in  any  one  place 
as  in  the  ditches  adjoining  '  St.  George  his  field,  near 
London'.  When  I  came  across  the  quotation  in  Mr. 
Wheatley's  '  Cunningham  '  the  other  day,  the  thought 
of  green  fields  with  clear  ditches  full  of  water-violets 
just  beyond  that  old  tavern  made  my  head  swim.  The 
flower  only  grows  in  clean  water." 

"  When  were  the  fields  built  over?  " 

"  Soon  after  Blackfriars  Bridge  was  built,  and  the 
Blackfriars  Eoad  was  cut — say  140  years  ago.  But 
there  was  a  house  at  that  corner  long  before  then  :  I've 
traced  it  back  to  1677 — that's  the  earliest  map  of  the 
part  I  could  find  on  a  scale  large  enough  to  show  such 
a  place.  There  was  stabling  or  something  joined  on  at 
the  back  of  it.  I  don't  say  that  the  present  tavern 
was  standing  in  1677,  but  it's  old.  What  do  you 
say?" 

"  What  does  the  landlord  say?  "  I  inquired  artlessly. 

The  assumption  that  this  source  of  information  had 
not  been  neglected  brought  a  humorous  twinkle  into 
Mr.  Fairfield's  eye,  but  he  answered  with  perfect  gravity, 
"  His  information  on  the  point  was  most  precise — the 
house  was  built  433  years  ago  ". 

"  That  won't  do !  "  I  said,  as  soon  as  I  had  worked 
out  a  sum  in  mental  arithmetic ;  "1468  is  much  too 


54     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

large  an  order  for  that  house.  Did  you  argue  the  point 
with  him  ?  " 

"  I  hadn't  the  courage  to :  he  was  so  positive.  I 
thought  it  better  to  change  front,  by  remarking  that 
the  neighbourhood  had  seen  some  changes  since  then. 
It  sounds  inane,  but  I  had  hopes  of  tapping  a  reservoir 
of  local  tradition." 

"And  did  you?" 

"  He  expressed  his  concurrence,  and  went  on  to  tell 
me  that  before  the  railway  arch  was  built — that  was 
some  thirty  years  ago,  he  said — there  used  to  be  a  sort 
of  fair  held  just  in  front  of  the  tavern." 

"  And  is  that  all  the  information  you  got  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  didn't  like  to  seem  too  inquisitive — and  no- 
body can  make  a  small  lemonade  last  for  ever.  Some 
afternoon  we'll  drop  in  there  together,  and  you  shall 
order  a  bottle  of  champagne  and  cross-examine  him  to 
your  heart's  content." 

"  It  will  be  most  enjoyable,"  said  I  genially ;  "  we  can 
sing  '  Old  Kose,'  and  all  of  us  rejoice  together  like  Izaak 
Walton  and  his  friends." 

Mr.  Fairfield  hailed  my  quotation  with  a  laugh. 

"  Even  allowing  that  the  landlord  was  wrong  about 
that  identical  house,"  said  he,  "  it's  highly  probable  that 
there  was  a  tavern  on  the  spot  four  or  five  hundred  years 
ago.  My  belief  is,  that  Falstaff  and  Shallow  drank 
there  when  they  went  to  the  Fields  from  Clement's  Inn. 
Don't  you  remember  Shallow's  reference  to  the  wind- 
mill in  St.  George's  Fields?  " 

"  So  Shakespeare  knew  the  place." 

"  Oh,  yes,  every  Londoner  knew  it,  and  the  Bankside 
people  had  it  close  at  hand.  It  isn't  a  mile  from  Clink 
Street.  Shakespeare  had  only  to  walk  along  the  Bank 
as  far  as  the  Falcon,  and  then  turn  down  Gravel  Lane 
by  the  east  side  of  the  mill-pond  and^follow  his  nose. 
The  Old  King's  Arms  used  to  front  on  the  south  end 
of  Gravel  Lane — there's  only  the  railway  arch  between 
it  and  the  roadway  now." 


THE  BANKSIDE  REVISITED         55 

I'm  afraid  the  chianti,  coupled  with  Mr.  Fairfield's 
topographical  disclosures,  had  made  me  sentimental. 
In  imagination  I  traced  the  path  from  the  King's  Arms 
back  to  the  Bankside. 

"  The  river  looks  very  well  from  the  Bank  at  night," 
I  remarked.  "  Do  you  care  to  see  it  ?  " 

Mr.  Fairfield  beckoned  to  the  waiter;  and  in  less 
than  five  minutes  we  were  on  the  flags  of  Gerrard 
Street. 

"  Did  you  find  out  anything  about  the  White  Hart 
in  Brooke  Street  ?  "  I  asked. 

Mr.  Fairfield  was  hailing  a  cab  at  the  moment,  and 
apparently  he  did  not  hear  me.  A  moment  later,  after 
he  had  told  the  man  to  drive  over  Blackfriars  Bridge,  I 
repeated  the  question ;  and  again  he  appeared  not  to 
hear  it. 

"  I  have  often  thought,"  he  remarked  meditatively 
as  we  bowled  along  eastward,  "  what  a  privilege  it  is  to 
be  able  to  visit  interesting  places  like  the  Bankside 
whenever  you  like,  and  particularly  at  night-time.  The 
thought  has  often  occurred  to  me  in  this  city  of  yours, 
after  dark.  It  really  seems  sometimes  as  if  the  places 
had  been  cleared  of  people  and  lighted  up  for  one's  especial 
benefit.  I  can  assure  you,  sir,  I  have  wandered  about 
Upper  Thames  Street  and  the  lanes  behind  Cheapside 
and  between  Cornhill  and  Lombard  Street  at  night- 
time when  the  City  has  been  as  silent  as  the  grave,  and 
when  the  thought  of  its  immense  antiquity  as  a  dwelling- 
place  has  quite  overcome  me.  More  than  once,  I  have 
seemed  to  lose  the  sense  of  my  own  identity,  and  to  be 
drifting  to  and  fro  as  a  shadow  among  shadows.  Do 
you  know  that  feeling?  "  he  inquired  a  little  shyly,  as 
if  conscious  that  his  remarks  were  somewhat  out  of  the 
common. 

I  knew  the  feeling  quite  well  and  I  told  him  so. 

It  was  a  fine  night,  and  as  the  cab  crossed  Blackfriars 
Bridge  the  prospect  on  our  right  was  magnificent.  The 
Middlesex  side  of  the  river  was  spangled  with  lights, 


56    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

and  on  the  stream  itself  fell  the  reflection  of  these  and 
of  the  lamps  on  the  bridges.  There  seemed  to  be  no 
darkness  over  the  black  water;  only  a  twilight  veil, 
through  which  the  beams  of  the  electric  light  struck 
silvery.  The  Surrey  side  was  enveloped  in  a  mysterious 
shadow,  but  here,  there,  and  everywhere  twinkled  the 
lights  on  the  moored  craft.  High  above  Waterloo 
Bridge  glittered  a  crescent  moon. 

We  stopped  the  cab  at  the  corner  of  Stamford  Street, 
and  crossing  over  the  Blackfriars  Road,  made  our  way 
along  Southwark  Street  and  into  Holland  Street. 

"  The  mill-pond  will  look  well  under  this  moon,"  said 
Mr.  Fairfield  with  grave  pleasantry,  as  we  passed  the 
almshouses.  Standing  far  back  from  the  silent  thorough- 
fare, and  with  hardly  a  light  showing,  the  little  houses 
seemed  asleep.  "  Surely  we  ought  not  to  pass  the 
Falcon  without  crushing  a  cup." 

"  Better  wait,  perhaps,  till  we  get  to  the  Mermaid," 
I  answered,  falling  in  with  his  humour. 

"  We  can  take  boat  from  the  Falcon  stairs,"  he 
suggested  with  unabated  gravity. 

"  Why  not  walk  along  the  Bank  and  cross  by — by 
the  bridge?"  I  had  intended  to  say  London  Bridge, 
but  had  checked  myself  before  I  got  to  the  end  of  the 
sentence. 

"  Ah,  the  bridge  indeed,"  said  my  client,  noticing 
this ;  "  the  only  bridge.  How  odd  it  seems." 

"  I  saw  the  pike  ponds  on  the  old  map — the  ponds 
where  they  kept  the  royal  pike,"  he  observed,  when  we 
had  strolled  as  far  eastward  as  the  turning  called  Pike 
Gardens.  "  They  were  in  a  garden,  and  I  feel  sure  that 
this  garden  occupied  the  ground  between  this  alley  and 
Moss  Alley,  which  lies  a  little  in  front  of  us.  There's  a 
perfect  labyrinth  of  lanes  full  of  small  houses  at  the  end 
of  Moss  Alley.  I  daresay  they,  too,  were  built  on  the 
site  of  that  garden !  The  pike  were  there  in  Cromwell's 
time.  The  land  belonged  to  the  Crown.  And  think 
what  a  change  it  must  have  made  when  Winchester 


s  - 

H     ^ 


THE  BANKSIDE  REVISITED       57 

House  ceased  to  be  the  bishops'  palace,  and  the  park 
and  gardens  were  built  over !  " 

I  was  glad  to  reach  Pike  Gardens,  and  to  have  the 
open  river  on  our  left  hand.  There  were  few  lights 
upon  it,  and  fewer  still  in  the  buildings  that  rose  straight 
out  of  it  on  the  opposite  shore.  But  the  darkness  was 
not  profound,  and  by  the  light  of  the  moon  the  shapes 
of  the  wharves  and  warehouses  could  be  made  out.  Be- 
hind them,  vaporous  in  outline,  but  preserving  its  familiar 
shape  and  dominating  the  whole  prospect,  rose  the  dome 
of  St.  Paul's. 

The  Bankside  by  night  was  a  far  less  prosaic  place 
than  it  had  seemed  by  daylight.  The  darkness  hid  the 
details  of  the  unromantic  brickwork,  and  hid,  too,  all 
that  was  unlovely  in  the  hoardings  round  the  cleared 
spaces.  We  passed  a  watchman  in  his  box  hard  by 
Cardinal  Cap  Alley,  but  there  was  not  another  person 
to  be  seen  in  the  roadway,  and  except  for  the  occasional 
rattle  of  a  train,  crossing  one  of  the  bridges,  we  could 
hear  nothing  but  the  washing  of  the  tide  against  the 
Bank  or  about  the  hulls  of  the  vessels  that  were  moored 
beside  it.  The  masts  of  the  barges  and  their  spars, 
draped  with  the  partly  furled  sails,  rose  dimly  and 
picturesquely  between  us  and  the  dark  and  shadowy 
buildings  on  the  opposite  shore. 

We  revisited  the  site  of  the  Bear  Garden  and  traversed 
the  whole  lengths  of  Eose  Alley  and  Horseshoe  Alley. 
In  this  last  we  lingered  for  some  time. 

"  There  is  at  the  Museum  a  map  of  the  Bankside 
as  it  existed  in  James  I's  time,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield,  as 
we  stood  about  half-way  down,  "  and  it  shows  that  there 
was  just  the  same  odd  angle  here  then  as  we  see  now 
before  us.  I've  been  thinking,  sir,  that  Shakespeare 
must  have  come  along  this  alley  many  a  time.  His 
theatre  was,  as  you  know,  only  a  few  yards  south-east 
of  the  bottom  of  it.  Pennant  says  that  Dick  Burbage 
was  his  favourite  actor,  and  that  Condell  and  Hemmings 
were  his  intimate  friends.  Pennant  knew  they  were 


58    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

his  theatrical  colleagues  and  they  edited  the  first  folio 
edition  of  his  plays.  I  daresay  he  knew  that  he  called 
them  his  '  fellowes  '  in  his  will,  and  left  them  one  pound 
six  and  eightpence  apiece  to  buy  them  rings.  Shake- 
speare and  Burbage  and  those  two  others  must  have 
often  come  along  this  pathway  together.  One  has  a 
general  notion  of  how  men  dressed  at  that  time ;  and 
I  don't  think  it's  very  hard  to  picture  the  four  of  them 
passing  along  here,  from  the  Globe  to  the  Falcon— 
or  to  the  river  anyway.  This  was  the  short  cut :  there 
were  stairs,  you  know — Horseshoe  Alley  Stairs — opposite 
the  river  end.  There  was  no  more  direct  way." 

Standing  there  in  the  darkness,  and  with  the  imagina- 
tion quickened  by  this  assurance,  it  was  not  difficult  for 
one's  fancy  to  raise  a  dim  and  shadowy  picture  of  the 
four  Elizabethans  clattering  by,  in  high  spirits  because 
the  day's  work  was  over  and  the  conviviality  of  the 
Falcon  was  close  at  hand. 

"  There  was  an  alley  called  Bearsfoot  Alley  between 
Horseshoe  Alley  and  the  Bankend  in  James  I's  time," 
said  my  client,  when  at  length  we  had  returned  to  the 
embankment ;  "  it  is  shown  on  Rocque's  plan,  but  there 
is  no  trace  of  it  now.  I  searched  very  carefully  the  other 
morning." 

"  Bearsfoot — that's  a  queer  name  !  " 

"  It  was  a  flower.  I  came  across  it  in  Bacon's  essay 
on  gardens.  I  looked  it  up  in  an  old  herbal ;  it's  what 
we  poetically  call  '  the  stinking  hellebore  '." 

Bearsfoot  Alley  was  undoubtedly  gone.  Between 
Horseshoe  Alley  and  the  Anchor  Tavern,  which  occu- 
pies the  angle  that  is  formed  by  the  juncture  of  Bank- 
side  and  Bankend,  there  was  an  unbroken  line  of  brick 
and  mortar.  The  Anchor  looked  very  comfortable  and 
cosy  that  night. 

"  There  was  nothing  I  looked  forward  to  more,  when 
I  first  left  home,  than  seeing  your  English  inns,"  said  my 
companion ;  "  one  had  read  so  much  about  them.  Not 
only  in  Dickens ;  though  they  are  more  attractive  in  his 


THE  BANKSIDE  REVISITED       59 

books  than  in  any  others.  We  have  nothing  like  them 
in  the  States.  When  I  used  to  read  about  the  Saracen's 
Head  at  Towcester,  where  Mr.  Pickwick  and  Bob 
Sawyer  and  Ben  Allen  put  up  that  wet  night,  when 
they  were  on  their  way  back  after  seeing  old  Winkle 
at  Birmingham,  or  about  the  Maypole  at  Chigwell,  in 
'  Barnaby  Kudge,'  or  that  inn  where  they  put  Mr.  Lorry 
into  the  Concord  room,  when  he  travelled  to  Dover  to 
meet  Miss  Manette  and  her  father  after  his  release 
from  the  Bastille,  I  used  to  feel  a  longing  to  see  the  old 
places  that  was  almost  painful.  The  custom  of  giving 
each  of  the  principal  rooms  a  name  was  very  quaint, 
and  it  seems  to  have  survived  down  to  the  coming  of 
the  railroad  —  Mr.  Pickwick's  room  in  the  Saracen's 
Head  was  called  the  Sun.  Miss  Hardcastle  mentions 
three  names  in  common  use  in  Goldsmith's  time — the 
Lamb,  the  Lion,  and  the  Angel.  It  must  have  been 
a  very  old  custom,"  continued  Mr.  Fairfield,  as  we 
stood  at  the  edge  of  the  Bank,  gazing  at  the  Anchor 
Tavern.  Mistress  Quickly  speaks  of  her  Dolphin- 
chamber,  and  when  Prince  Henry  and  Poins  play 
their  practical  joke  on  Francis  the  drawer  at  the 
Boar's  Head,  two  rooms  are  mentioned,  the  Half- 
moon  and  the  Pomegranate ;  and  in  '  Measure  for 
Measure  '  there  is  a  reference  to  another  room,  the 
Bunch  of  Grapes." 

"Did  our  inns  come  up  to  your  expectations?"  I 
asked. 

"  My  expectations  were  not  very  high ;  for  I  re- 
membered how  badly  Dickens  in  the  '  Uncommercial 
Traveller '  spoke  of  the  taverns  as  they  were  after  the 
coaches  had  been  taken  off  the  roads;  and  on  the 
whole  I  was  not  at  all  disappointed.  So  far  as  the  look 
of  the  places  went,  they  even  exceeded  my  expectations. 
If  we  had  not  just  dined,  I  don't  think  I  could  resist 
the  temptation  of  seeing  the  inside  of  that  cosy  little 
house  in  front  of  us.  Not  that  one  had  much  to  drink," 
he  added  with  some  earnestness. 


60     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  That  was  a  big  flask,"  I  hinted,  "  and  we  nearly 
emptied  it." 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  liked  it,"  was  his  genial  answer. 
He  seemed  to  speak  in  good  faith ;  and  this  made  the 
innuendo  that  lay  behind  his  words — the  suggestion 
that  I  was  chiefly  responsible  for  the  emptying  of  the 
fiasco — the  more  hard  to  bear. 

"  I  daresay  they  draw  an  excellent  tap  of  lemonade," 
I  suggested,  remembering  the  scene  in  White  Hart 
Yard. 

"  Very  likely !  very  likely ! — you  must  try  it  some  day," 
said  Mr.  Fairfield,  leading  the  way  past  the  tavern  and 
along  Bankend. 

The  railway  arch,  which  forms  the  approach  to  Clink 
Street  yawned  before  us  like  the  mouth  of  some  great 
cavern.  The  light  in  Shakespeare's  old  street  was  so 
defective  that  all  the  sordid  features  of  the  architecture 
were  hidden  from  us.  We  paused  when  we  came  to 
the  little  dock.  The  tide  was  high  and  the  water 
seemed  almost  within  arm's  reach.  The  river  looked 
very  solemn,  as  seen  through  the  narrow  cleft  between 
the  tall  warehouses. 

"  This  dock  was  here  in  Shakespeare's  time,"  remarked 
my  friend  complacently. 

"  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  going  round 
the  church  again  last  time  I  was  here,"  he  said,  when 
we  were  standing  before  the  west  front  of  St.  Saviour's, 
"  and  a  glorious  place  it  is.  I  think  Shakespeare 
must  have  been  in  it.  It  stands  to  reason,  that  if 
he  was  in  London  or  anywhere  near  it,  when  they 
buried  his  brother,  he  would  go  to  the  funeral.  The 
register  says  that  Edmund  Shakespeare,  a  player,  was 
buried  in  the  church  with  a  forenoon  knell  of  the  great 
bell.  I  think  Shakespeare  must  have  paid  for  that." 

"  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  are  buried  here,  I  think." 

"  Oh,  yes,  and  Massinger  too.  He  lived  on  the  Bank, 
and  the  player  folk  followed  his  body  to  the  church. 
Can  you  read  him — and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher?  " 


THE  BANKSIDE  REVISITED       61 

I  nodded. 

"  And  Ben  Jonson  ?  " 

"  With  difficulty — extreme  difficulty.  He  moves  in 
a  wide  sea  of  glue — Tennyson  said  that." 

Mr.  Fairfield  could  appreciate  such  a  happy  hit  as 
this. 

"  Could  you  tell  a  scene  from  Beaumont  and  Fletcher 
from  a  scene  from  Shakespeare,  if  the  two  scenes  were 
both  unknown  to  you,  and  you  were  put  to  the  test?  " 
he  asked,  after  he  had  rolled  the  sweet  morsel  under  his 
tongue. 

I  shook  my  head.  "  I  doubt  whether  most  of  the 
glib  gentlemen,  who  have  written  so  feelingly  about 
Shakespeare's  immense  superiority,  could  pass  through 
that  ordeal  successfully,"  I  ventured  to  remark. 

Mr.  Fairfield  grinned.  "When  I  go  home,  I  mean 
to  study  Lamb's  '  Specimens  '.  If  anything  will  teach 
me  how  to  distinguish  Shakespeare's  work,  they  will." 
He  registered  this  virtuous  resolution  earnestly,  but 
without  enthusiasm. 

We  turned  back  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  leading  up 
to  the  Borough  High  Street,  and  retraced  our  way  to 
Bankend. 

"  I  suppose  it  was  somewhere  behind  there,"  said  my 
client,  pointing  towards  the  brewery,  "  that  Dr.  Johnson 
was  to  be  seen  in  his  full  glory  as  one  of  Thrale's  exe- 
cutors. Do  you  remember  how  he  bustled  about  with 
an  inkhorn  and  pen  in  his  buttonhole,  when  the  sale  of 
the  concern  was  going  forward  ?  That  was  when  he 
said  they  were  not  there  to  sell  a  parcel  of  boilers  and 
vats,  but  the  potentiality  of  growing  rich  beyond  the 
dreams  of  avarice." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember !  and  we  can't  be  far  off 
Goldsmith's  burrow,"  I  struck  in,  not  unwilling  to  air 
my  knowledge  of  the  neighbourhood.  "  He  practised 
as  a  physician  here.  It  is  quite  on  the  cards  that  he 
visited  some  of  those  small  houses  that  you  found  be- 
hind Moss  Alley." 


62     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  I  hope  he  did  for  the  inhabitants'  sake.  I  daresay 
he  was  quite  as  good  a  doctor  as  most  of  his  rivals,  and 
I'm  sure  he  never  took  a  fee  unless  the  patient  could 
afford  to  pay  it." 

"  When  you  brought  me  here  that  Saturday  after- 
noon," began  Mr.  Fairfield,  as  we  came  to  the  mouth 
of  Horseshoe  Alley,  and  he  stopped  to  gaze  down  it  once 
more,  "  when  you  first  brought  me  here,  the  difference 
between  the  place  as  it  now  is  and  as  it  was  300 
years  ago,  rather  staggered  me.  The  connexion  between 
the  two  seemed  too  vague  for  a  man  to  take  hold  of. 
But  when  one  gets  to  know  the  place  better,  there's  a 
certain  charm  about  that  vagueness — it  leaves  room  for 
the  play  of  one's  fancy.  We  have  here  in  these  alleys 
and  passages  the  very  paths  by  which  Shakespeare 
made  his  way  to  and  fro,  and  I'm  not  at  all  sure  they 
don't  bring  one  as  near  to  him  in  imagination  as  if 
we  still  had  the  very  buildings  associated  with  him — 
his  house,  or  his  theatre,  or  the  tavern  where  he  met 
his  friends." 

I  was  disposed  to  agree,  but  I  thought  that  my  friend 
was  forgetting  how  much  more  than  the  lanes  and  alleys 
still  remained  to  recall  to  us  the  Bankside  of  300 
years  ago. 

"  After  all,"  I  said,  "  there  is  a  great  deal  here  which 
has  come  down  to  us  from  Shakespeare's  time.  First 
and  foremost,  there  is  the  river  itself,  running  in  its  old 
channel ;  then  there's  the  Bank  itself ;  and  there's  the 
church ;  and  there's  that  dock,  too — though  I  think  it 
was  bigger  once,"  I  added,  by  way  of  afterthought. 

We  had  been  moving  forward  while  we  talked  thus, 
and  had  reached  Southwark  Bridge.  We  passed  under 
the  brick  archway  that  spans  the  road,  and  stood  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs  leading  down  to  the  river.  The  tide 
was  so  high  that  the  water  was  only  a  few  feet  below 
the  level  of  the  Bank.  Immediately  west  of  Southwark 
Bridge  a  large  square  platform,  used  no  doubt  for  load- 
ing or  unloading  the  riverside  craft,  juts  out  over  the 


THE  BANKSIDE  REVISITED       63 

water.  There  was  no  one  about  to  interfere  with  us, 
so  we  stepped  down  on  to  this  platform  and  moved  for- 
ward to  the  edge  of  it.  For  a  time  we  stood  silent, 
leaning  our  arms  on  its  wooden  railing.  In  the  water 
below  there  was  no  movement  perceptible ;  in  that  dim 
light  it  stretched  before  us  like  some  vast  lake.  Close 
on  our  right  was  the  south  arch  of  Southwark  Bridge,  and 
through  it  we  could  see  the  railway  bridge  just  beyond, 
and  at  its  northern  end  the  variegated  lights  of  Cannon 
Street  Station.  Through  the  same  southern  arch,  and 
under  and  beyond  the  railway  bridge,  the  eye  could 
trace  a  shadowy  something,  stretching  across  the  river ; 
and  from  the  stationary  lights  above  it,  and  the  swiftly 
moving  lights  that  crossed  to  and  fro  between  them,  we 
knew  that  it  was  London  Bridge.  The  moon  was  ob- 
scured for  the  time  being.  On  the  farther  side  of  the 
dark  arch  on  our  right,  lay  a  fleet  of  lighters,  extending 
from  the  Bank  far  into  the  stream,  and  just  discernible 
in  the  dim  shadow. 

On  the  Middlesex  side  there  was  scarcely  a  light  vis- 
ible between  the  bridge  beside  us  and  the  lights  of  far 
distant  Blackfriars.  There  seemed  to  be  a  faint  mist 
lying  over  the  water,  so  thin  as  to  be  almost  invisible, 
but  sufficient  to  lend  a  pearliness  to  the  atmosphere. 
Gazing  through  this  to  the  Middlesex  shore,  we  could 
trace  a  blurred  and  irregular  outline,  high  up  against 
the  distant  sky,  which  we  knew  must  be  the  roofs  of 
the  waterside  buildings ;  but  all  between  this  and  the 
dark  water  was  shadow  and  mystery.  In  one  place  the 
outline  was  broken  ;  and  there,  so  vaporous  and  so  like 
in  colour  to  the  sky  behind  it  that  at  one  moment  the 
eye  caught  its  shape  distinctly,  and  a  moment  later 
looked  for  it  in  vain,  towered  the  great  dome. 

There  really  was  some  movement  in  the  full  river ; 
for  it  lapped  the  stairs  beside  us,  and  broke  over  them 
foaming.  It  played  among  the  lighters,  and  now  and 
again  there  was  a  groaning  and  creaking,  as  one  of  them 
strained  upon  her  moorings.  Across  the  railway  bridge, 


64     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

an  occasional  train  puffed  and  laboured.  Except  for  these 
sounds,  and  the  broken  fragments  of  talk  or  laughter 
that  were  wafted  down  to  us  from  the  top  of  the  bridge 
far  above,  there  was  nothing  to  disturb  the  perfect  still- 
ness of  the  night. 

"  Can  things  have  looked  very  different  in  Shakes- 
peare's time  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Fairfield  suddenly — "  I  mean 
at  night." 

I  pondered  for  awhile  over  this  question. 

"  I  don't  think  the  buildings  on  the  opposite  shore 
can  have  been  so  high  as  they  are  now,"  I  began  with 
some  diffidence.  "  The  city  was  built  of  wood  chiefly, 
and  the  roofs  were  thatch  or  tiles.  The  houses  were  no 
doubt  crowded  together — one  climbing  up  the  side  of 
another.  You  must  have  seen  in  old  towns  abroad  the 
sort  of  jumble  I  mean.  There  were,  no  doubt,  wharves 
and  such-like  on  the  waterside,  but  the  tenants  lived  on 
the  premises,  so  the  upper  windows  would  be  lighted 
up.  You  would  not  have  that  wall  of  darkness  that 
we  see  before  us — at  all  events,  not  till  the  people  had 
gone  to  bed.  The  taverns  at  any  rate  would  be  lighted 
up  at  this  time  of  night,  though  folks  kept  early  hours 
then  compared  with  us." 

"  True,"  said  my  client,  "  Falstaff  speaks  of  having 
heard  the  chimes  at  midnight,  as  if  that  was  very  late." 

"  Then,  of  course,  there  was  old  St.  Paul's  instead  of 
the  present  cathedral.  The  tall  steeple  was  burnt  down 
a  little  before  Shakespeare's  time,  but  the  body  of  the 
cathedral  would  still  be  the  most  prominent  object 
from  Bankside ;  it  would  show  high  above  all  the 
surrounding  buildings." 

I  paused,  and  we  both  stood  gazing  across  the  river, 
each  endeavouring  to  picture  that  old  London  of  Eliza- 
beth. 

"And  there  wouldn't  be  this  dead  silence,"  I  re- 
sumed. "  The  river  was  the  great  highway  in  those 
times,  and  I  don't  suppose  the  traffic  altogether  stopped 
at  nightfall.  And  there's  another  thing :  there  must 


THE  BANKSIDE  REVISITED       65 

have  been  many  taverns  on  the  waterside,  and  I  feel 
sure  that  in  those  days  there  was  a  great  deal  of  singing 
wherever  men  met  together  to  make  merry.  Master 
Slender,  you  will  recollect,  had  his  book  of  songs  and 
sonnets." 

"  You  English  were  great  singers  down  to  a  compar- 
atively recent  date ;  Thackeray  says  somewhere  that 
in  the  time  of  George  IV  all  England  sounded  with 
choruses." 

"  I  think  the  practice  came  down  from  very  early 
days.  I  had  Walton  in  mind  when  I  spoke  just  now ; 
I  dip  into  him  pretty  often.  Whenever  he  refers  to  a 
tavern  he  speaks  of  singing  there ;  and  if  the  contem- 
plative Izaak  was  wont  to  uplift  his  voice  in  taverns  as 
a  matter  of  course,  you  may  be  sure  his  noisier  contem- 
poraries lifted  up  theirs  pretty  freely.  If  at  this  moment, 
we  two  were  looking  across  the  Thames  of  Shakespeare's 
day,  I  think  we  should  hear  some  songs." 

"  What  would  they  be  ?  " 

This  was  a  poser ;  but  as  it  was  not  often  that  Mr. 
Fairfield  appealed  to  me  for  information  on  a  literary 
topic,  I  endeavoured  to  rise  to  the  occasion. 

"I  think  they  sang  catches  and  roundelays,"  I 
answered  diplomatically,  but  after  an  interval  of  reflec- 
tion I  ventured  to  become  more  explicit.  "  Walton 
mentions  many  songs,  but  some  of  them  were  made 
after  Shakespeare's  death.  He  speaks  of  '  Old  Hose  '. 
It  was,  I  believe,  popular  for  many  years — '  Sing  old 
Rose  and  burn  the  bellows,'  was  the  full  title.  That 
was  a  very  old  song  even  in  Walton's  time.  Then 
there  were  the  popular  songs  of  the  day — '  Come  live 
with  me  and  be  my  love,'  for  instance,  which  Sir  Hugh 
Evans  sings  in  the  '  Merry  Wives,'  and  which  Walton 
calls  '  the  smooth  song  which  was  made  by  Kit  Mar- 
lowe ' — or  Nash's  '  The  spring,  the  sweet  spring  '- 

"  I  know  that  song,"  interposed  my  companion  ;  "  it's 
in  the  '  Golden  Treasury  '." 

"  Perhaps  they  sang  Ben  Jonson's  '  Drink  to  me  only 
5 


66     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

with  thine  eyes,'  though  the  tune  which  we  know  wasn't 
written  until  long  afterwards ;  or  '  Charis,  her  triumph,'  " 
I  continued,  "  and  then  there  were  Shakespeare's  own 
songs.  '  It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass,'  and  '  0,  Mistress 
mine, 'must  have  been  popular  with  his  contemporaries. 
And  besides  all  these,  there  were  some  of  the  old  English 
songs  that  we  still  hear  in  every  drawing-room 

"  '  Barbara  Allen,'  for  instance,"  broke  in  Mr.  Fairfield 
once  again ;  "  that  was  a  very  old  song  in  Pepys' 
day.  Knipp  sang  it  to  him ;  he  calls  it  '  Barbary 
Allen '.  I  daresay  Shakespeare  sang  it,  and  I've  no 
doubt  it  was  one  of  Goldsmith's  favourites.  He  men- 
tions the  '  Cruelty  of  Barbara  Allen '  in  the  '  Vicar  of 
Wakefield,'  as  one  of  the  songs  that  neighbour  Flam- 
borough  used  to  sing." 

"  This  is  very  interesting,"  he  continued,  as  he  settled 
himself  more  comfortably  against  the  barrier  at  the 
edge  of  the  platform,  and  lit  a  fresh  cigar,  "  for  our  boys 
and  girls  sing  those  old  songs  as  much  as  yours  do. 
Proceed,  0  man  of  law !  We  have  before  us  a  wooden 
city,  thatched  or  tiled,  and  dominated  by  a  Gothic 
cathedral,  and  there  are  many  taverns  in  it,  and  great 
noise  of  singing  comes  from  them.  There  would  be 
old  London  Bridge,  too,  with  lights  in  the  houses  built 
upon  it,  and  there  would  be  much  traffic  on  the  river." 

"  Only  passenger  traffic  at  night,  I  think — wherries 
and  such-like ;  though,  perhaps,  sometimes  a  royal 
barge  might  slip  by,  conveying  a  prisoner  to  the  Tower 
— it  lies  quite  near  us;  just  behind  London  Bridge, 
yonder." 

"  Ah,  true !  They  took  Bacon  there  by  water,  so  as 
not  to  make  a  show  of  him.  That  was  in  the  early 
morning,  though." 

"  In  a  place  like  London,"  I  went  on,  "  lots  of  people 
must  have  been  about  after  dark.  There  was  only  one 
bridge,  and  if  at  night  they  used  the  river  for  nothing 
more  than  to  get  from  one  shore  to  the  other,  there 
must  have  been  plenty  of  boats  crossing  to  and  fro.  I 


THE  BANKSIDE  REVISITED        67 

daresay  there  were  torches  at  the  stairs,  and  in  some 
of  the  boats,  so  the  river  would  be  full  of  lights  and 
shadows." 

"  The  ferrying  of  people  from  side  to  side  must  have 
been  a  very  important  industry,"  said  Mr.  F  airfield 
meditatively.  "  I  noticed  in  the  old  maps  of  the  Bank- 
side  that  there  were  stairs  at  every  few  paces,  and  no 
doubt  it  was  just  the  same  on  the  other  side.  The 
watermen  had  a  good  time  of  it  in  those  old  days. 
They  did  the  work  that  the  cabmen  do  now.  I  wonder 
how  they  charged." 

"  If  you  went  any  distance  the  cost  depended,  I  fancy, 
on  whether  you  took  '  Sculls '  or  '  Oars  '.  I  noticed  the 
other  day,  in  an  old  almanac  for  the  year  1820  or  there- 
abouts, that  a  wherry  with  oars  cost  twice  as  much  as  a 
wherry  with  sculls — it  meant  two  rowers  instead  of  one, 
you  see.  I  doubt  if  waterside  customs  altered  much  be- 
tween Shakespeare's  time  and  the  beginning  of  the  last 
century." 

"Now,"  observed  my  client,  "I  understand  what 
Lamb  meant  when  he  made  Elliston  reject  sculls  and 
demand  oars  for  his  passage  across  the  Styx ;  Elliston's 
dignity  would  not  allow  him  to  travel  in  the  more  humble 
way." 

"  Shakespeare  must  often  have  used  the  river,"  I 
went  on.  "  When  the  players  went  to  Whitehall  you 
may  be  sure  they  went  by  water,  and  I  daresay  on  the 
return  journey  they  put  in  at  the  Falcon " 

"  That  sitting  in  taverns  hour  after  hour  was  a  bad 
business,"  interrupted  my  companion.  "  It  meant  a 
lot  of  drinking.  It  was  a  very  bad  business." 

"It  was,  indeed,"  I  answered  fervently.  I  was 
anxious  to  make  it  plain  to  him  how  firm  and  un- 
bending my  temperance  principles  were;  but  I  could 
not  refrain  from  adding,  "  good  for  those  old  taverns, 
though  ". 

Mr.  Fairfield  laughed.  "  One  can't  have  everything," 
was  his  comment.  "  Good  for  the  taverns,  no  doubt ; 


68     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

good,  perhaps,  for  the  songs,  too,"  he  went  on.  "  If 
they  sang  while  they  drank,  this  must  have  created  a 
demand  for  songs,  and  no  doubt  the  demand  created 
a  supply.  Beally,  you  almost  persuade  me  that  the 
fuddling  was  a  good  thing." 

"  I  don't  believe  Shakespeare  fuddled,  but  the  Fal- 
con must  have  been  a  familiar  name  to  him,"  said  I, 
smitten  by  a  flash  of  memory.  "  According  to  Strat- 
ford tradition,  he  was  in  his  youth  a  haunter  of 
the  Falcon  at  Bidford.  They  used  to  show  a  crab- 
tree  near  it,  under  which  he  is  said  to  have  slept  for 
thirty-six  hours  after  leaving  the  tavern.  The  house  is 
still  in  existence.  You  have  been  to  Stratford,  I  suppose." 

"  No,"  he  answered  laconically ;  and  then  after  an 
interval  he  went  on  :  "I'm  not  sure  I  want  to  go  there. 
I've  heard  a  good  deal  about  it.  It's  a  show  place,  and 
so  far  as  I  can  make  out  you  are  pestered  and  fleeced 
at  every  turn.  I'm  afraid  my  countrymen  are  partly 
responsible  for  this." 

"  Are  things  as  bad  as  all  that?  I  don't  recollect  be- 
ing fleeced  or  worried  when  I  was  there.  Of  course  the 
townspeople  use  the  Bard  as  a  stalking-horse  for  push- 
ing their  trade,  and  I  daresay  a  good  deal  of  the  local 
homage  isn't  very  disinterested.  But  that's  human 
nature  all  the  world  over — '  Great  is  Diana  of  the 
Ephesians,'  said  the  craftsmen  of  Ephesus." 

Mr.  F  airfield  grunted,  and  I  went  on.  "  The  place  it- 
self is  well  worth  seeing.  I  don't  believe  there  is  anything 
in  England  more  beautiful  than  that  great  church  by 
the  Avon.  And  the  country  round :  you  would  like 
that ;  you  may  travel  for  miles  and  hardly  come  across 
a  house  that  isn't  300  years  old,  and  taverns  older  than 
Shakespeare's  time  are  as  common  as  blackberries. 
There's  Leamington  within  easy  distance  too,  where 
Mr.  Dombey  went,  and  you  can  go  over  Warwick  Castle 
as  he  and  his  party  did." 

Mr.  Fairfield  laughed  as  I  prolonged  the  catalogue  of 
attractions.  "  I'll  think  of  it,"  he  said. 


THE  BANKSIDE  REVISITED        69 

"  I  can  get  away  for  four  or  five  days  next  week  or 
the  week  after,  and  I  shall  be  thankful  for  your  com- 
pany, if  you  will  give  it  me." 

"  Thank  you!  "  said  my  client  heartily,  "  I  think  I 
will  go.  At  any  rate  I'll  think  it  over." 

So  we  talked,  leaning  over  the  railing  with  our  eyes 
fixed  on  the  still  bosom  of  the  river ;  the  city  looming 
before  us,  and  the  lapping  of  the  wavelets  and  the 
straining  of  the  lighters  in  our  ears.  And  when,  a 
moment  or  two  later,  we  were  both  silent,  and  Mr. 
Fairfield  was  no  doubt  thinking  over  my  invitation,  a 
faint  sound  stole  across  the  water.  At  first  it  was  so 
faint,  that  I  doubted  whether  it  was  not  fancy.  But, 
borne  on  a  warm  puff  of  wind  from  the  north,  it  grew 
stronger,  and  we  straightened  ourselves  and  looked  at 
one  another.  It  was  the  sound  of  bells.  In  some  city 
church  the  ringers  were  at  work,  and  as  the  wind  blew 
or  paused  the  sound  rose  or  fell.  Never  rising  high,  the 
music  floated  across  the  river ;  and  in  the  silence  and 
amid  the  surroundings  in  which  we  stood,  it  was  inex- 
pressibly sweet  and  moving. 

"  We're  in  luck !  "  ejaculated  my  companion ;  and 
then,  as  if  feeling  that  such  slipshod  speech  was  out  of 
place,  he  went  on,  his  voice  thrilling  with  emotion  : 
"  The  bells  of  London  town  :  God  bless  her  !  " 

We  stood  silent,  listening  to  the  faint  music.  The 
wind  freshened  for  a  space,  and  the  clash  and  ripple  of 
the  peal  seemed  to  fill  the  air.  Then  the  breeze  dropped 
again,  and  the  sound  almost  died  away.  But  there  was 
still  a  pulsation  in  our  ears,  and  we  caught  the  notes 
fitfully  and  as  if  from  a  great  distance. 

My  companion  bared  his  head — 

"  I  feel  death  rising  higher  still  and  higher, 
Within  my  bosom  ;  every  breath  I  fetch 
Shuts  up  my  life  within  a  shorter  compass, 
And,  like  the  vanishing  sound  of  bells,  grows  less 
And  less  each  pulse,  till  it  be  lost  in  air." 

Mr.  Fairfield's  voice  sank  to  a  whisper  before  the 


70    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

last  line  was  reached,  and  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
dark  mass  crowned  by  the  shadowy  dome  that  in  the 
darkness  looked  so  far  away,  he  said  once  again,  "  God 
bless  her !  " 

POSTSCEIPT 
SHAKESPEARE  IN  THE  WATER  MEADOWS 

Halloo  !  Halloo  !  ye  bats  that  flit 

About  the  tavern  door, 

What  lack  have  ye  of  Condell's  wit, 

Or  Hemmings'  lusty  roar  ? 

What  lack  have  I  of  mirth  and  wine, 

Or  catch  and  glee  in  store, 

With  all  the  summer  night  for  mine  ; 

And  who  would  ask  for  more — 

For  more — 
And  who  would  ask  for  more  ? 

A  perfume  of  the  new-mown  hay, 

O'er  sedge  and  runnels  borne, 

A  vagrant  air  that  stirs  to  play 

The  blossom  on  the  thorn  ; 

While,  climbing  o'er  the  willow  tops, 

A  young  moon  lifts  her  horn, 

And  moaning  through  the  bishop's  copse, 

A  nightingale  forlorn — 

Forlorn — 
A  nightingale  forlorn. 

My  fellows  trolling  unaware, 
I  mingled  in  your  lunes, 
But  summer  stole  among  us  there 
And  drew  me  forth  eftsoons  : 
And  while  her  honey-sweets  prevail, 
I  ask  no  other  boons  ; 
No  music  but  the  nightingale, 
No  lantern  but  the  moon's — 
The  moon's — 
No  lantern  but  the  moon's. 


, 
•*'  Lii^2i^ 


CHAPTEK  V 
THE  BIRTH-HOUSE  AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

BEFORE  parting  with  Mr.  Fairfield  on  the  night  when 
we  heard  the  bells  across  the  river,  I  obtained  his 
promise  to  go  with  me  to  Shakespeare's  town.  It 
was  the  middle  of  September  before  this  promise  was 
redeemed. 

We  both  took  bicycles — Mr.  F  airfield's  was  a  yellow 
article  of  native  manufacture — and  as  the  short  journey 
from  Leamington  to  Stratford  is  slow  and  tedious,  we 
left  the  railway  at  Leamington,  and  after  lunching  there 
and  endeavouring,  without  success,  to  find  the  Boyal 
Hotel  at  which  Mr.  Dombey  put  up,  we  took  the  road 
to  Stratford.  This  road  runs  through  Warwick,  and  it 
was  difficult  to  ride  in  past  one  mediaeval  gateway 
and  out  past  another  without  making  a  stay.  But 
we  had  determined  that  we  would  pass  on  to  Stratford 
without  delay,  and  leave  the  investigation  of  the  sur- 
rounding country  to  a  later  date;  so  we  resisted  the 
temptations  to  alight  that  assailed  us  on  every  hand, 
and  presently  we  were  in  the  open  country,  with  the 
West  Gate  and  its  neighbour,  the  picturesque  Leycester 
Hospital,  behind  us.  For  once  Mr.  Fairfield  had  dis- 
carded his  frock-coat  and  tall  hat.  Clad  in  grey  tweeds 
and  a  wideawake  of  the  same  colour,  he  was  quite  at 
home  on  the  yellow  bicycle. 

There  are  two  roads  from  Warwick  to  Stratford,  and 
I  took  the  longer  because  it  ran  past  Charlecote.  Here 
we  rested  for  a  while  to  admire  the  beautiful  Tudor 

71 


72     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

gateway,  and  a  little  farther  on  we  stopped  again,  for 
we  espied  an  iron  gate  bearing  the  shield  of  the  Lucys. 

"  Ah,  there's  the '  old  coat ' !  "  said  Mr.  Fairfield,  much 
interested,  and  he  counted  the  luces  which  it  bore. 
"  Not  a  dozen  of  them,  though  !  " 

Two  or  three  days  later  we  revisited  Charlecote,  and 
saw  in  the  private  chapel  the  monumental  effigy  of  the 
Sir  Thomas  Lucy  of  Shakespeare's  youth ;  and  a  noble 
gentleman  he  looked. 

A  ride  of  four  miles  from  Charlecote  brought  us 
near  to  Stratford.  A  line  of  pollard  willows  a  little  to 
our  right  told  us  that  our  road  was  following  the  river — 
Shakespeare's  Avon — and  presently  I  saw  the  point,  of  a 
spire  appear  above  the  distant  tree-tops. 

"  That  is  the  church,"  said  I. 

Mr.  Fairfield  answered  nothing,  but  the  yellow  bicycle 
made  a  wide  curve.  Then  the  rider,  with  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  distant  object,  steadied  himself  and  rode  on  at  a 
quicker  pace.  In  a  minute  or  two  we  were  crossing  the 
bridge  that  Sir  Thomas  Clopton  built  in  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, and  which  Shakespeare  must  have  crossed  scores 
of  times.  We  rode  over  it,  a  beautiful  river  picture  on 
either  hand,  and  onward  into  the  heart  of  the  town. 

It  did  not  take  us  long  to  put  up  the  bicycles  and 
make  the  necessary  arrangements  for  our  housing  dur- 
ing the  excursion.  Mr.  Fairfield  was  so  much  attached 
to  the  yellow  horror,  brought  from  far  Chicago,  that 
though  he  had  sought  to  propitiate  the  ostler,  under 
whose  charge  he  had  left  it,  by  the  gift  of  half-a-crown, 
and  had  received  many  assurances  that  the  machine 
should  be  well  looked  after,  he  quitted  the  stable  with  a 
troubled  brow ;  and  more  than  once  he  looked  back  as 
if  doubtful  whether  he  could  bear  to  trust  his  faithful 
steed  to  the  mercy  of  a  stranger. 

I  had  brought  from  town  no  guide-book  except  a  small 
penny  itinerarium,  written  by  a  local  clergyman,  which 
I  had  purchased  on  the  occasion  of  my  former  visit ;  but 
when,  later,  the  immense  trunk  of  my  companion  gave 


BIRTH-HOUSE  AT  STRATFORD     73 

up  its  contents,  I  found  that  they  included  a  perfect 
library  of  guide-books  and  works  of  reference.  This 
huge  receptacle  had  not  arrived  when  we  were  ready  to 
sally  forth  to  make  our  first  investigation  of  Shakes- 
peare's town,  and  nothing  less  than  a  visit  to  the  station, 
where  we  found  it  duly  stranded,  would  satisfy  its 
owner.  He  certainly  was  a  little  fussy  about  his  per- 
sonal belongings.  This  business  over,  Stratford  was  all 
before  us  where  to  choose. 

We  made  our  way  down  Bother  Street,  and  stopped 
at  the  end  of  it  to  examine  the  Jubilee  fountain  and 
clock-tower. 

"  Presented  by  Mr.  Childs  of  Philadelphia,"  I  re- 
marked, anxious  that  my  friend  should  know  of  his 
countryman's  munificence. 

"  So  I  observe,"  he  answered,  almost  tartly,  and  then 
he  read  aloud  one  of  the  inscriptions,  "  '  Honest  water 
which  ne'er  left  man  i'  the  mire '." 

"  My  guide-book  says  we  ought  to  drink  here,"  I  ob- 
served. This  was  not  strictly  true,  but  what  the 
book  really  said  was  so  delicious,  that  I  wished  to  prepare 
my  companion's  mind  for  it. 

"  Why  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Fairfield. 

"  Because  the  writer  is,  I  suppose,  a  teetotaler,"  I 
answered,  and  I  read  aloud,  "  '  Inscriptions  upon  its 
four  sides  tell  its  story  and  record  our  Poet's  praises  of 
cold  water.  We  shall  do  better  to  drink  of  it  rather 
than  patronise  any  of  the  public-houses  which  abound 
in  the  town.' ' 

"  Shall  we,  indeed?"  remarked  Mr.  Fairfield,  with 
gentle  sarcasm.  "And  does  the  writer  go  on  to  give 
any  directions  as  to  how  much  we  are  to  consume  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  answered,  consulting  the  book,  "  unfortu- 
nately he  is  silent  as  to  that,  but  he  tells  us  where  we 
are  to  get  our  lunch  or  tea — we  are  to  go  to  the  coffee 
palace  and  temperance  hotel." 

My  friend  looked  incredulous,  so  I  read  aloud,  "  '  If, 
however,  we  are  looking  for  a  place  to  lunch  or  have 


74    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

tea,  we  cannot  do  better  than  go  to  the  coffee  palace 
and  temperance  hotel  in  Bridge  Street ' ". 

Mr.  Fairfield  listened  smiling.  "  Eeally,"  he  said 
when  I  had  finished,  "  I  feel  an  uncontrollable  desire  to 
take  a  glass  of  beer."  So  saying,  he  made  for  the  tavern 
which  stood  a  few  paces  in  front  of  us,  and  in  this 
whimsical  protest  against  the  guide-book's  advice  I 
joined  him. 

We  walked  up  Windsor  Street,  and  took  the  first  turn- 
ing to  the  right.  This  was  Henley  Street.  A  little 
way  down  it,  I  stopped  and  pointed  without  a  word  to 
the  building  on  the  other  side  of  the  road.  It  is  un- 
necessary to  describe  it.  All  the  world  knows  those 
trim  gables  and  that  neat,  fresh  calimanco-work. 

Mr.  Fairfield  put  on  his  pince-nez.  "  Shakespeare's 
birthplace  !  "  he  ejaculated  reverently.  "  But  how  very 
modern  looking !  It's  exactly  like  the  cottage  in  the 
Swiss  toy,"  he  went  on,  a  moment  later — "  the  cottage 
from  which  a  little  man  or  little  woman  comes*  out 
according  to  the  weather.  But  it  is  old — very  old  ;  it 
belonged  to  Shakespeare  and  his  father  before  him. 
That  at  least  is  certain,  and  whether " 

Here  his  reflections  were  broken  by  a  shrill  voice  at 
his  elbow :  "  Gi'e  me  a  penny  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about 
Shakespeare,"  said  the  voice,  in  a  strong  Warwickshire 
accent. 

We  looked  down.  The  interruption  came  from  a 
small  boy,  who  was  just  beginning  to  repeat  his  invita- 
tion, when  Mr.  Fairfield  turned  on  him  with  a  gesture  so 
peremptory  and  a  countenance  so  forbidding  that  the 
words  died  on  his  lips. 

"  It's  shameful,  abominable !  "  he  protested,  as  we 
crossed  the  road.  "  I  had  heard  that  this  was  common 
here,  but  I  had  forgotten  it." 

We  entered  the  Birth-house,  and  paid  our  sixpences. 
There  were  not  more  than  half  a  dozen  other  visitors. 
The  two  attendants  on  the  ground-floor  pointed  out  to 
us  the  chimney-corner  in  the  living  room,  and  other 


BIRTH-HOUSE  AT  STRATFORD     75 

objects  of  interest ;  then  they  passed  us  on  to  the  first- 
floor.  There  was  no  hurrying,  but  it  seemed  to  be 
taken  for  granted  that  visitors  must  be  passed  on  with- 
out delay.  We  ascended  the  stairs  to  the  so-called 
Birth-room,  that  gaunt,  low  chamber,  the  Mecca  of 
so  many  pilgrims,  which  looks  all  the  emptier  for  the 
few  articles  of  furniture  that  stand  against  its  walls. 
I  had  more  than  once  addressed  my  companion  as  we 
went  over  the  rooms  below,  but  his  answers  were  so 
brief  and  his  countenance  so  abstracted  that  I  soon 
relapsed  into  silence.  In  the  Birth-room  he  followed 
with  .close  attention  all  that  the  attendant  told  us,  and 
when  the  exposition  was  over  he  stood  with  a  settled 
gloom  upon  his  countenance,  as  through  his  pince-nez 
he  gazed  round  the  room  so  slowly  that  he  seemed  to 
be  taking  in  every  detail  of  it,  foot  by  foot. 

In  the  chamber  behind  the  Birth-room  is  an  oil-paint- 
ing, and  on  each  side  of  it  hangs  an  iron  flap.  Directly 
these  objects  caught  my  friend's  eye  his  gloom  vanished. 
"  I've  read  about  this  portrait,"  he  said,  addressing  me 
with  his  usual  grave  cheerfulness.  "  What  do  you  think 
of  it?" 

"  The  face  certainly  bears  some  resemblance  to  the 
bust  in  the  church,  and  the  body  appears  to  be  well 
nourished,"  I  answered. 

My  friend  smiled,  but  a  moment  later  he  was  listen- 
ing with  a  gravity  that  was  almost  owlish  to  the  attend- 
ant's description  of  the  picture,  and  of  the  circumstances 
under  which  it  had  been  discovered  and  presented  to 
the  birth-place  trustees.  "  And  every  night,  sir,"  said 
the  man,  addressing  Mr.  Fairfield,  whose  rapt  interest 
had  evidently  impressed  him,  "  the  picture  is  locked  up 
in  that  fireproof  safe  which  you  see  on  each  side  of  it." 

The  tall  grave  visitor  gazed  at  the  portrait  as  if  he 
were  fascinated  by  it,  and  slowly  nodded  his  head  twice 
or  thrice.  Everybody  thought  that  he  was  a  connois- 
seur, and  that  he  lacked  words  in  which  to  express  his 
admiration.  So,  when  the  attendant  next  spoke  all  eyes 
were  turned  in  my  friend's  direction. 


76     EAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  It  is  considered  a  very  fine  work,  sir,"  was  the 
man's  remark,  and  he  paused  for  the  expert's  opinion. 

There  was  a  twinkle  in  Mr.  Fairfield's  eyes,  as  after 
resting  upon  the  left-hand  iron  flap  and  passing  thence 
across  the  picture  to  the  flap  on  the  right,  they  scanned 
for  a  moment  the  attendant  and  the  group  round  him. 

"  No  doubt  a  very  fine  work,"  he  observed,  seeing 
that  an  answer  was  expected ;  "  possibly  one  of  the 
masterpieces  of  Gabriel  Varden  himself." 

A  hum  of  applause  followed ;  nobody  doubting  that 
the  locksmith  referred  to  was  a  painter  of  high  re- 
nown. 

We  were  not  allowed  to  enter  the  garden  behind  the 
house.  This  was  irritating,  for  the  view  of  it  from  the 
back  windows  was  inviting,  and  the  guide-book  told  us 
that  it  contained  a  specimen  of  every  English  plant 
mentioned  in  the  poet's  works. 

"I  made  a  jackass  of  myself  about  that  picture," 
said  Mr.  Fairfield  apologetically,  when  we  stood  in 
Henley  Street,  after  leaving  the  house;  "it's  a  silly 
thing  and  an  ill-mannered  thing  to  play  upon  people. 
But  when  the  man  spoke  so  rapturously  about  the 
iron  safe,  and  I  pictured  to  myself  the  house  destroyed 
by  fire  and  that  wretched  picture  lying  in  the  ashes 
uninjured,  I  was  so  tickled  that  I  forgot  myself  for 
the  moment." 

"  Well?  "  I  said,  interrogatively,  after  we  had  stood 
for  some  little  time  gazing  at  the  front  of  the  house. 

My  companion  received  this  as  an  invitation  to  com- 
municate his  impressions.  He  shook  off  his  reverie  and 
squared  his  shoulders. 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  he  began  confidentially 

"  You  give  me  a  penny  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about 
Shakespeare,"  interrupted  a  voice  that,  though  small, 
was  not  still. 

It  was  another  urchin.  My  friend  started  as  if  he 
had  been  shot,  and  an  explosive  sound,  very  suggestive 
of  the  fourth  letter  of  the  alphabet,  burst  from  him. 


BIRTH-HOUSE  AT  STRATFORD     77 

But  he  checked  himself  before  the  sound  had  formed 
itself  into  a  word  and  clutching  my  arm  he  hurried  me 
away.  He  did  not  pause  until  we  had  turned  the 
corner  into  Windsor  Street. 

"  I  all  but  swore  before  that  child — God  forgive  me  !  " 
he  gasped,  quite  breathless  with  the  haste  with  which 
we  had  moved. 

"  And  what  did  you  think  of  the  birthplace  ?  "  I  asked, 
as  soon  as  he  had  regained  his  composure. 

Mr.  Fairfield  hesitated  for  a  while,  and  then  burst 
forth  with  a  rapidity  of  utterance  very  unlike  his  usual 
deliberate  speech :  "I'm  glad  to  have  seen  it — very 
glad ;  but  I  can't  bring  my  mind  to  associate  Shake- 
speare with  it :  I  can't  fancy  him  spending  his  boyhood 
and  his  youth  in  that  dark  den  at  the  back,  which  they 
call  the  living-room.  The  outside  of  the  two  houses  was 
a  great  surprise  to  me.  I  knew  what  the  place  looked 
like  before  it  was  restored ;  I  knew  they  had  put  dormer 
windows  into  the  sagging  old  roof ;  I  knew  they  had 
restored  the  front ;  but  the  pictures  I  had  seen  of  the 
houses  as  they  now  are  had  not  in  the  least  prepared 
me  for  that  spick  and  span  front,  with  the  contrast  be- 
tween its  fresh  new  rough-cast  and  its  dark  beams.  I 
was  disappointed,  and  when  I  said  it  looked  like  a  toy- 
house  I  daresay  I  exaggerated  a  little.  But  really,  sir, 
the  outside  is  offensively  modern.  And  when  you  get 
inside  the  Birth-house,  the  place,  for  all  its  scrupulous 
trimness,  is  so  mean  and  so  dark  that  you  can't  think 
of  any  civilised  person  living  in  it,  without  a  sort  of  pity. 
The  upstairs  rooms  are  better,  but  there  is  nothing 
venerable  about  them — nothing  suggestive  of  sixteenth 
century  interiors  as  we  generally  see  them.  And 
while  we  were  going  over  the  place  I  remembered  that 
in  Mr.  Lee's  '  Life,'  he  said  that  Shakespeare's  father 
was  fined  by  the  town  authorities  for  having  a  dirt-heap 
in  front  of  his  house.  A  picture  of  those  lower  rooms 
350  years  ago,  with  a  stinking  muck-heap  just  under 
the  windows,  rose  in  my  mind,  and  it  positively  de- 


78     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

pressed  me  to  think  of  Shakespeare  living  under  such 
conditions." 

"Very  likely  the  rooms  were  quite  different  in  his 
time.  Halliwell-Phillipps  says  that  the  cellar — which, 
by-the-by,  is  not  shown  to  visitors — is  the  only  part 
of  the  house  that  is  unchanged.  And  apart  from  this, 
you  mustn't  look  at  the  sixteenth  century  with  the  eyes 
of  the  twentieth ' 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  he  interrupted  hastily ;  "  but  one 
always  thinks  of  the  man  Shakespeare  as  of  some  great 
natural  wonder,  something  in  the  open  air — something 

like  the  sea  itself,  or  a  mountain "  Here  he  broke 

off,  and  after  a  pause  he  repeated,  as  if  still  following 
out  his  train  of  thought : — 

"  Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain  tops  with  sovran  eye, 
Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green, 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy." 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  the  Clopton  Bridge, 
and  we  stopped  and  drank  in  the  beauty  of  the  pro- 
spect. 

"  This,  now,"  resumed  my  companion,  "  seems  quite 
in  harmony  with  Shakespeare.  It's  beautiful  enough 
to  take  even  the  taste  of  that  house  out  of  one's  mouth. 
By-the-by,  they  call  it  the  Birth-house,  and  everybody 
talks  of  it  as  if  he  really  was  born  there.  But  is  the 
evidence  on  the  point  satisfactory?  " 

I  felt  that  he  was  appealing  to  me  in  my  professional 
capacity,  and  I  considered  the  question  with  judicial 
gravity. 

"  The  evidence,  as  I  understand  it,  isn't  conclusive," 
I  answered,  after  a  decent  interval  of  reflection.  "  That 
is  certainly  Mr.  Lee's  opinion.  There  can  be  no  question 
that  the  house  which  adjoins  the  so-called  Birth-house, 
and  is  now  the  Museum,  was  bought  by  Shakespeare's 
father  some  eight  years  before  Shakespeare's  birth.  Un- 
luckily he  also  bought  a  house  in  Greenhill  Street,  and  this 


BIRTH-HOUSE  AT  STRATFORD     79 

complicates  matters.  It  is  also  beyond  all  doubt  that 
four  years  before  he  bought  the  Museum,  he  was  occupy- 
ing a  house  in  Henley  Street,  and  that  at  the  time  of  his 
death  he  owned  two  houses  there,  one  the  Birth-house 
and  the  other  the  Museum ;  but  there  is  nothing  con- 
clusive to  connect  him  with  the  Birth-house  at  the  date 
of  the  birth ;  there  is,  in  fact,  no  evidence  that  he  was 
living  there.  After  reading  Mr.  Lee's  '  Life '  I  looked 
into  the  matter  a  little  at  the  British  Museum,  and  I 
came  to  the  conclusion  that,  though  in  all  probability 
Shakespeare  was  born  in  one  of  the  two  houses  in  Hen- 
ley Street,  it  was  impossible  to  say  that  one  had  a  better 
claim  to  the  honour  than  the  other." 

"  And  what  about  the  Birth-room  ?  " 

"  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  evidence  in  favour 
of  Shakespeare's  having  been  born  in  that  particular 
first-floor  room  was  worth  nothing.  Halliwell-Phillipps 
proves  that  so  long  ago  as  1769  it  was  asserted  that 
he  was  born  there ;  but  that  was  two  hundred  years  after 
the  event.  You  will  find  the  facts  epitomized  by  Mr. 
Lee,"  I  concluded, 

"I  must  re-read  what  he  says  about  the  marriage, 
too,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield. 

"  Shall  we  stroll  to  Shottery  ?  "  I  asked  a  few  minutes 
later.  "  It's  only  a  mile  distant,  and  there's  plenty  of 
time  before  dinner." 

My  friend  shook  his  head.  "  The  birthplace  is  enough 
for  one  day,"  he  answered.  "  Let  us  get  the  machines 
and  take  a  little  turn  outside  the  town." 

We  chose  the  Evesham  Road,  and  presently  turned 
down  a  lane  on  the  left  which  brought  us  within  sight 
of  the  river.  The  shadows  were  lengthening,  and  the 
stream  with  its  fringe  of  willows  and  the  green  meadow 
through  which  it  ran  looked  so  beautiful,  kissed  by  the 
golden  sun,  that  we  abandoned  the  bicycles  and  made 
our  way  to  the  bank,  and  sat  there  almost  in  silence 
until  the  shades  of  evening  gave  us  warning  of  the  near 
approach  of  the  dinner-hour. 


80    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

For  a  long  time  that  evening  my  companion  pored 
over  Mr.  Lee's  "  Life  ".  Then  he  lay  back  in  his  chair 
and  meditated,  the  fingers  of  one  lean  hand  noiselessly 
beating  the  table  before  him.  At  length  he  looked 
over  in  my  direction.  I  laid  down  "  The  Times,"  and 
prepared  myself  for  cross-examination.  But  none  fol- 
lowed ;  he  seemed  to  be  in  doubt  for  a  moment  as  to  what 
he  should  do,  and  then  he  walked  to  the  table  on  which 
his  travelling  library  was  arranged,  and  selecting  a 
volume  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  he  settled  himself  down 
again  and  read  and  meditated  until  bedtime. 

"  I  shall  bathe  in  the  Avon  to-morrow  morning," 
he  announced  when  we  were  parting  for  the  night. 
"  Eobin  Ostler" — he  uttered  this  Shakespearean  name 
with  much  relish — "  Robin  Ostler  tells  me  there  is  a 
good  bathing-place  just  off  the  road  by  which  we  came 
here,  and  that  it  has  been  used  for  bathing  from  time 
immemorial." 

It  was  rather  late  in  the  year,  but  the  weather  was 
warm  and  summer-like,  and  the  thought  of  bathing  in 
Shakespeare's  river  was  not  without  its  fascination. 

"  I  will  join  you,"  said  I. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  HATHAWAY  HOUSE  AT  SHOTTERY 

WE  found  the  bathing-place  without  difficulty  the  next 
morning,  and  when  we  saw  it  we  blessed  the  town  au- 
thorities for  the  excellent  accommodation  which  they 
had  provided.  I  did  not  omit  to  point  out  to  my  com- 
panion that  there  was  nothing  to  pay.  A  little  footpath 
led  from  the  roadway  to  the  riverside.  The  hedge  and 
the  long  grass  beside  it  were  spangled  with  the  heavy 
dewdrops  of  September,  and  there  was  something  of  an 
autumn  freshness  in  the  air.  But  on  the  river-bank 
there  was  nothing  to  suggest  the  season  of  decay.  The 
stream  lay  before  us  bathed  in  sunshine,  and  mirroring 
the  green  alders  and  dwarf  willows  that  fringed  the 
opposite  bank.  It  was  beautiful  as  a  dream. 

"  What  can  it  be  like  in  May?  "  was  Mr.  Fairfield's 
exclamation. 

We  strolled  to  Shottery  after  breakfast.  The  meadow 
paths  are  not  nearly  so  sylvan  as  the  guide-books  would 
lead  one  to  expect.  The  endless  stream  of  excursionists, 
which  has  flowed  along  them  throughout  spring,  summer 
and  autumn  for  so  many  years  has  left  its  mark. 

From  the  children  of  Shottery  we  received  more  than 
one  offer  to  tell  us  for  the  usual  consideration  all  about 
Shakespeare,  or  to  conduct  us  on  the  same  terms  to 
Anne  Hathaway's  cottage.  Mr.  Fairfield,  ashamed  of 
his  outburst  of  yesterday,  submitted  to  this  persecution 
more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,  but  his  face  was  as  sour 
as  vinegar. 

The  picturesque  thatched  building,  now  divided  into 
6  81 


82     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

three,  that  was  once  the  home  of  a  Hathaway  family,  is 
easily  found,  and  on  payment  of  sixpence  the  traveller 
is  admitted  to  the  middle  dwelling.  Once  inside,  he 
had  better  for  the  time  being  resign  himself  to  the  de- 
lusion that  it  was  always  separated  from  the  rest  of  the 
building,  and  make-believe  to  believe  that  when  Shake- 
speare was  a  youth  his  sweetheart  lived  in  it  and  was 
courted  by  her  lover  there.  The  young  and  very  pretty 
girl  who  acted  as  our  guide  had  no  doubt  on  these  points. 
In  the  downstairs  room  she  drew  our  attention  to  various 
articles  of  household  use  or  ornament  as  having  been 
the  property  of  Anne  Hathaway,  and  with  a  faint  blush 
she  pointed  out  a  seat  by  the  fireside  as  the  courting- 
settle. 

"  The  courting-settle?  "  repeated  Mr.  Fairfield,  turn- 
ing to  me  for  information.  Probably  he  thought  it  was 
some  article  common  in  English  kitchens,  but  unknown 
to  him. 

"  The  seat  on  which  Shakespeare  courted  Mistress 
Anne,"  I  explained.  "  Haven't  you  seen  the  well- 
known  picture  of  this  room  with  the  two  lovers  seated 
there  ?  " 

My  friend  bent  his  gaze  on  the  courting-settle,  and 
then,  with  an  unmoved  countenance,  he  turned  to  our 
guide : — 

"  When  the  heart  is  young,  my  dear,  courting  is  an 
excellent  thing,  even  on  a  seat  no  wider  than  a  knife- 
board." 

He  said  this  with  a  pleasantry  so  paternal  and  benign 
that  the  girl  received  it  without  offence.  She  looked  at 
the  settle,  and  the  thought  that  it  certainly  was  rather 
narrow  seemed  to  strike  home.  With  peals  of  laughter 
she  passed  us  on  to  the  upper  room,  which  according  to 
the  local  tradition  was  Anne  Hathaway's  bedchamber. 
Here  we  were  received  by  another  guide,  a  female  of 
more  advanced  age.  She  expounded  to  us  the  massive 
wooden  bedsteads  which  are  contained  in  this  room  and 
the  room  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  stairway,  and  pro- 


THE  HATHAWAY  HOUSE          83 

duced  certain  other  relics  of  the  house's  former  mistress. 
These  ceremonies  over,  we  gazed  from  one  of  the  small 
windows  upon  the  prospect  beyond,  while  the  custodian 
told  us  of  Barnum's  effort  to  buy  the  cottage  and  all  its 
contents  for  exhibition  in  America. 

At  any  other  time,  such  a  narrative  as  this  might  have 
set  my  friend's  patriotism  on  fire,  but  just  then,  there 
was  no  kindling  his  enthusiasm.  From  the  moment  of 
our  entry  into  those  upper  rooms,  his  aspect  had  been 
so  suggestive  of  neuralgia  that  more  than  once  the  good 
woman  had  put  forward  a  word  of  sympathy.  There 
was  trouble  in  Mr.  Fairfield's  eyes,  and  with  one  hand 
arched  above  his  mouth,  he  held  the  intermediate  organ 
in  a  firm  grip  of  thumb  and  finger.  Even  my  thoughts 
were  inclined  to  wander :  I  seemed  to  be  carried  back 
to  my  boyhood,  and  to  the  hutches  where  my  pet  rabbits 
passed  their  blameless  lives. 

At  the  time  of  our  arrival  we  were  the  only  visitors, 
but  while  we  were  upstairs  a  brake  drove  up  and  dis- 
gorged its  passengers.  There  was  a  stir  and  bustle  in 
the  room  below  and  many  ejaculations  of  admiration 
and  wonder  reached  our  ears.  The  nationality  of  the 
visitors  was  beyond  all  question.  I  turned  to  Mr. 
Fairfield  and  I  am  afraid  I  smiled.  The  faint  look 
of  annoyance  on  his  face  disappeared  and  he  smiled 
broadly. 

"  Our  people  who  tour  about  in  companies  are  not 
always  the  quietest  of  folk,"  he  remarked. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  another  brake  rattled  up  and  we 
saw  the  passengers  come  streaming  towards  the  cottage 
door.  We  heard  them,  too.  They  were  very  noisy, 
almost  raffish,  and  in  the  voices  which  were  shrill  and 
piercing  was  a  drawl  that  I  recognized.  Undoubtedly 
they  were  excursionists  from  some  town  in  the  Midlands. 

Mr.  Fairfield  looked  at  me  this  time.  "  Perhaps  we 
may  as  well  get  outside,"  I  remarked. 

But  this  was  easier  said  than  done ;  for  the  new-comers 
were  beginning  to  ascend  the  stairs  and  they  surged 


84    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

up  until  both  bedrooms  were  uncomfortably  crowded. 
We  were  wedged  against  the  wall  of  the  larger  room  ; 
so  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  stand  still  and  watch 
the  visitors.  They  had  no  doubt  of  the  perfect  authen- 
ticity of  all  that  the  guide  told  them ;  and  when  a  piece 
of  material  of  a  yellow  hue,  most  offensive  to  the  eye, 
was  produced  and  declared  to  be  linsey-woolsey  of  Anne 
Hathaway's  own  weaving,  their  emotion  did  not  fall  far 
short  of  rapture. 

"  Linsey-woolsey  !  Goodness  gracious !  "  ejaculated 
one  lady,  as  with  awe  and  reverence  she  handled  the 
precious  fabric.  "  And  what  a  peculiar  colour,"  she 
added,  addressing  a  female  beside  her.  The  remark  was 
true  enough  in  itself,  but  under  the  circumstances  it 
was  comic ;  for  the  speaker's  cloak  was  of  the  same  hue, 
and  the  material  seemed  the  same. 

We  reached  the  open  air  at  last,  and  stayed  in  the 
garden  for  a  minute  or  two  to  examine  a  stone,  which 
was  pointed  out  to  us  as  having  been  used  as  a  seat  by 
Charles  Dickens  when  he  visited  the  cottage.  Some  of 
the  excursionists  were  on  the  path  near  to  us,  gazing  at 
the  front  of  the  building. 

"  They  only  show  you  the  middle  part,"  observed  the 
lady  in  the  linsey-woolsey  cloak,  "  I  guess  they  live  in 
the  rest  of  it." 

Inwardly  I  "  guessed  "  so  too,  and  I  wondered  what 
precautions  were  taken  against  fire. 

"  It  would  be  a  pity  if  the  old  place  were  burnt  down," 
I  remarked  as  we  turned  out  into  the  garden. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  would,"  said  my  friend  doubtfully, 
and  he  went  on  to  express  a  conviction  that  even  in  the 
middle  part  the  bedrooms  were  still  slept  in.  He  also 
made  a  few  observations  upon  the  ventilation. 

We  hung  about  the  neighbourhood  until  the  brakes 
had  driven  off,  and  then  we  returned  to  the  roadway  to 
have  a  parting  look  at  the  old  farmhouse,  with  its  roof 
of  deep  thatch  and  careless,  old-fashioned  garden.  Can 
all  England  show  a  prettier  piece  of  rusticity?  Mr. 


THE  HATHAWAY  HOUSE          85 

Fairfield  was  gazing  at  it  through  his  pince-nez,  deep  in 
thought. 

"  A  very  fitting  background  for  an  idyll,"  I  observed. 
"  I  can  see  you  are  trying  to  picture  Master  William 
a- wooing."  This  I  said  in  malice,  for  I  felt  sure  my 
companion  was  doing  nothing  of  the  sort. 

"  Can  you  read  that?"  was  his  only  response,  and 
he  pointed  to  one  of  the  chimneys. 

It  bore  the  letters  I.H.,  followed  by  a  date  near  the 
end  of  the  seventeenth  century. 

"  I  beh'eve  it's  the  date  when  the  place  was  built," 
quoth  he,  with  evident  venom. 

I  burst  out  laughing ;  and  after  a  pause  he  laughed 
too.  "  Perhaps  that  is  rather  too  large  an  order,"  he 
admitted ;  "  but  how  I  wish  I  could  prove  it !  " 

I  took  it  for  granted  that  the  fables  to  which  we  had 
been  listening  inside  the  house  had  irritated  him,  and  I 
sought  to  pour  oil  on  the  troubled  waters. 

"  When  I  was  here  last,  the  cottage  was  occupied  by 
a  Mrs.  Baker,  a  very  old  lady.  She  was  quite  a  Shake- 
spearean celebrity  in  these  parts,  and  when  she  broke  her 
leg,  the  accident  and  her  recovery  from  it  were  local 
events  of  great  importance.  She  claimed  to  be  a  de- 
scendant of  the  Hathaways.  When  she  showed  you 
over  the  place  and  told  you  that  the  pots  and  pans  had 
belonged  to  Mistress  Anne,  and  that  Master  William  had 
spent  most  of  his  early  youth  courting  on  that  settle,  it 
was  quite  soothing  and  pleasant.  It  seemed  in  accord- 
ance with  the  fitness  of  things  that  the  old  lady  should 
tell  you  so.  I  fancy  the  legends  we  have  just  heard 
originated  with  Mrs.  Baker;  I  daresay  you  found  it 
irritating  to  listen  to  them  under  present  circumstances." 

"If  Mrs.  Baker  had  chosen  to  tell  the  visitors  that 
she  was  Anne  Hathaway  herself,  grown  old,  I  don't  sup- 
pose one  in  a  hundred  would  have  doubted  her,"  said 
Mr.  Fairfield,  smiling.  "  I  did  not  in  the  least  mind 
what  they  said  inside,"  he  explained,  "  but  your  talk- 
ing about  an  idyll  reminded  me  of  all  the  sickly  twaddle 


86    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

I  had  read  about  Shakespeare  and  his  connexion  with 
this  place,  and  that  ruffled  up  my  feathers.  Merciful 
powers !  is  the  story  such  a  pretty  one  that  every  scrib- 
bler who  prints  his  impressions  of  this  place  must  needs 
gush  over  it  ?  It  makes  me  sick  !  " 

"  He  was  only  eighteen,"  I  pleaded,  thinking  to  miti- 
gate my  friend's  censoriousness. 

"  Yes,  poor  boy,  and  she  was  six-and-twenty.  Just 
think  of  what  your  life  would  have  been  if  you  had  got 
into  such  an  entanglement  at  his  age,  and  had  been 
dragooned  into  marrying  a  woman  eight  years  your 
senior ;  and  then  try  to  fancy  the  sort  of  wife  that  Anne 
Hathaway,  the  daughter  of  a  Shottery  farmer  and  very 
likely  in  service  at  Temple  Grafton  when  the  marriage 
licence 'was  obtained,  must  have  seemed  to  Shakespeare 
when  he  grew  to  manhood." 

"  That's  the  story  '  on  the  documents '  as  you  lawyers 
call  it,"  he  resumed.  "  I  can  understand  one  writer  or 
another  trying  to  make  a  prettier  thing  of  it  by  declaring 
that  there  had  been  an  earlier  marriage  according  to 
the  rites  of  the  old  faith,  or  that  there  had  been  a  hand- 
fasting,  which  was  the  same  thing  as  a  marriage.  Both 
theories  are  mere  fantastic  nonsense ;  but  I  can  under- 
stand anyone  who  believes  in  them,  treating  the  affair 
as  a  love  idyll.  But  how  any  man  who  accepts  the 
facts  without  such  an  explanation  can  write  sentimental 
twaddle  about  its  beauty  and  freshness  passes  my  com- 
prehension. And  the  worst  of  it  is,"  he  added,  growing 
cooler  but  speaking  with  deep  vexation,  "  the  chief 
offenders  are  my  own  countrymen." 

This  terrific  outburst  had  barely  come  to  an  end  when 
another  brake  full  of  excursionists  drove  up,  and  a  little 
group  of  children,  anxious  to  earn  an  honest  penny, 
collected  about  it.  Mr.  Fairfield  seized  my  arm  as  if 
eager  to  shake  the  dust  of  Shottery  from  his  feet,  and 
we  walked  back  to  Stratford.  We  dawdled  for  a  while 
in  its  clean,  bright  streets,  and  made  a  few  purchases  at 
one  of  the  shops  devoted  to  the  sale  of  Shakespearean 


THE  HATHAWAY  HOUSE          87 

relics  and  souvenirs.  He  chose  a  plaque  emblazoned 
with  the  arms  of  England  and  the  arms  of  Shakespeare, 
and  bearing  a  well-known  quotation  from  "  Hamlet  ". 
We  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  on  our  bicycles. 

After  dinner  that  evening,  as  I  sat  skimming  through 
some  papers  that  had  been  forwarded  to  me  from  Gray's 
Inn,  I  saw  my  companion  unwrap  his  purchase  and  be- 
gin to  examine  it  with  much  complacency.  A  moment 
later  I  was  startled  by  a  sudden  ejaculation ;  and,  look- 
ing up,  I  saw  him  make  a  hasty  dart  at  the  side-table 
where  the  books  lay.  There  was  a  flutter  of  leaves,  and 
then  arose  a  wail  of  wrath  and  lamentation. 

"  The  sordid  wretches  can't  even  print  him  correctly  ! 
They've  actually  put  '  one  '  instead  of  '  man '.  Listen 
to  this  !  "  And  he  read  out  from  the  plaque  : — 

"  This  above  all :  to  thine  own  self  be  true, 
And  it  must  follow,  as  the  night  the  day, 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  anyone  !  " 

Next  morning  we  made  for  the  church.  When  we 
reached  the  gate  of  the  graveyard,  it  was  plain  from  the 
empty  vehicles  drawn  up  near  it  that  we  had  once  more 
fallen  in  with  a  horde  of  excursionists,  and  when  we  had 
walked  down  the  beautiful  lime  avenue  that  leads  to  the 
north  door  we  came  upon  them.  The  porch  was  full  of 
these  gadflies,  and  the  official  in  a  long  cassock  who 
was  selling  tickets  of  admission  had  a  busy  time  of  it. 
The  place  was  all  a-hum  like  a  railway  booking-office 
in  August.  Your  ordinary  excursionist  cannot  take  a 
ticket  and  receive  his  change  without  hubbub. 

For  a  few  minutes  Mr.  F  airfield  eyed  the  scene  in 
silence.  Then,  in  silence,  we  both  turned  and  retraced 
our  steps  along  the  avenue. 

"  We  can  try  again  some  other  day,"  he  said,  as  we 
passed  out  of  the  churchyard.  "  Is  that  business  legal  ?" 

"  Not  knowing — can't  say,"  was  my  answer.  "  When 
I  was  last  here  they  were  selling  crosses  and  other  little 
matters  made  of  old  wood  taken  out  during  the  restora- 
tions." 


88     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  What  becomes  of  all  those  sixpences?  " 

"  They  go  to  repair  the  church  and  pay  an  additional 
curate.  I  saw  this  in  one  of  your  guide-books  last 
night." 

"  Considering  what  Stratford  gets  out  of  Shakespeare 
in  other  ways,  I  think  it  might  pay  for  its  own  spiritual 
comforters,"  was  Mr.  Fairfield's  comment. 

We  walked  up  Old  Town ;  past  Hall's  Croft,  where 
once,  according  to  Stratford  tradition,  dwelt  Shake- 
speare's son-in-law,  and  on  into  Church  Street. 

"  We  had  better  inspect  the  site  of  New  Place,"  I 
suggested,  and  we  stopped  for  a  moment  while  I  con- 
sulted my  guide-book. 

"  Give  me  a  penny  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  Shake- 
speare," sounded  in  our  ears  once  more.  The  speaker 
was  a  loutish  youth  of  about  seventeen,  with  furtive  and 
shifty  eyes.  He  spoke  with  a  strong  Warwickshire 
accent,  but  he  looked  like  the  typical  London  pickpocket. 
Without  waiting  for  an  answer  he  proceeded  to  give  us 
a  sample  of  his  wares : — 

"  Shakespeare  stole  a  deer 

Out  of  Charlecote  Park  ; 

He  gave  it  to  the  poor  people. 

He  saw  some  men  a-ploughin'  on  Monday ; 

He  asked  them  why  they  was  ploughin'  on  Sunday  ; 

They  said  it  wasn't  Sunday  it  was  Monday — " 

Our  persecutor  proceeded  thus  far  in  a  sort  of  sing-song, 
relieved  once  or  twice  by  a  stamp  of  the  foot ;  then  he 
broke  off  and  looked  up  into  our  faces  with  a  leer  of  in- 
tense enjoyment. 

"  He  was  droonk,  y'e  knoo,"  he  explained. 

"Who  taught  you  to  cadge  like  this?"  demanded 
Mr.  Fairfield. 

The  youth  leered  again.  "  I'm  savin'  money  for  the 
fair." 

"  It's  in  the  Warwickshire  blood,  I  suppose,"  said  my 
companion,  as  soon  as  we  had  left  the  lout  behind. 
"  When  Scott  visited  Kenilworth,  three  or  four  years 


THE  HATHAWAY  HOUSE          89 

before  his  death,  he  complained  that  the  children  were 
beggars.  There  was  evidently  a  line  missing  in  that 
trash,"  he  went  on  ;  "  something  ought  to  follow  '  He 
gave  it  to  the  poor  people '  ;  and  why  on  earth  did  the 
boy  stamp  his  foot  ?  It  seemed  intended  to  emphasize 
the  cadence." 

I  was  not  able  to  throw  any  light  on  this  problem. 

"And  this  is  the  site  of  New  Place,"  said  Mr.  Fair- 
field,  as  we  stood  in  Chapel  Street  with  our  backs  to 
the  Falcon  Hotel  and  looked  through  the  railings  on 
the  green  space  at  the  corner  of  Chapel  Lane. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  "  that  at  least  is  certain.  The 
brick-work  with  wire  netting  over  it,  that  you  see  just 
in  front,  is  shown  as  part  of  the  foundations  of  the 
house.  There  are  two  wells  too.  We  can  go  inside  the 
enclosure  if  we  take  a  ticket  for  the  museum.  It's  con- 
tained on  the  ground-floor  of  that  house  on  our  left — 
it's  the  house  in  which  Nash,  who  married  Shakespeare's 
granddaughter,  Elizabeth  Hall,  once  lived.  Halliwell- 
Phillipps  says  that  somewhere  in  the  roof  is  a  scantlet 
of  one  of  the  gables  that  belonged  to  Shakespeare's 
house.  Behind  this  enclosure  is  the  site  of  his  great 
garden.  There's  no  charge  for  admittance." 

"  The  entrance  I  take  it  is  round  the  corner,"  said 
Mr.  F airfield,  ignoring  my  suggestion  that  we  should 
visit  the  museum,  and  making  for  Chapel  Lane. 

In  that  fair  green  pleasaunce  there  were  no  noisy 
excursionists  or  begging  children  to  come  between  us 
and  our  thoughts  of  its  former  master.  Nowhere  else 
in  Stratford,  except  perhaps  on  the  river  walk  in  the 
churchyard,  does  one  seem  to  get  so  near  to  him.  For 
a  long  time  we  sauntered  about  the  smooth  lawns, 
rarely  speaking  to  one  another. 

"  Is  the  museum  worth  seeing '?  "  asked  my  companion, 
when  at  length  we  had  dropped  on  to  a  seat. 

"  I  don't  know  that  it  is ;  but  if  you  pay  your  six- 
pence you  can  inspect  the  foundations  which  we  saw 
from  the  road  and  drink  from  one  of  the  wells." 


90    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  What  about  the  foundations — are  they  genuine?  " 

"  If  Halliwell-Phillipps  tells  us  that  they  are  the 
foundations  of  Shakespeare's  New  Place  I  suppose  we 
ought  to  accept  the  statement.  But  as  we  are  also  told 
that  some  time  before  the  end  of  1702  the  house  was 
pulled  down  and  another  built  on  the  site,  it  is  difficult 
to  feel  quite  sure.  The  guide-books,  of  course,  have  no 
doubts.  There  seems  to  have  been  a  bay  window  at 
the  back.  According  to  them,  this  must  have  belonged 
to  Shakespeare's  study,  and  he  wrote  the  '  Tempest '  in 
that  room.  The  museum  is  quite  a  little  place,"  I  went 
on,  "  but  there's  a  huge  table  in  it,  that  came  from  the 
Falcon  over  the  way.  It  was  used  for  playing  shuffle- 
board." 

"  Shakespeare's  favourite  game,  of  course,"  sneered 
my  companion. 

"  To  the  best  of  my  belief,"  I  answered,  "  it  wasn't 
known  a  few  years  ago  that  in  his  day  there  was  no 
Falcon  tavern,  and  I'm  afraid  there  was,  until  quite 
lately,  a  firm  and  cherished  tradition  in  Stratford  that 
he  spent  his  evenings  there." 

"  Of  course,  of  course, — 'he  was  droonk,  y'eknoo,' ' 
retorted  my  client,  with  a  contemptuous  imitation  of  our 
last  beggar.  "  Give  Stratford  the  existence  of  a  tavern 
anywhere  near  New  Place,  and  Stratford  will  give  you 
a  fine,  old,  crusted  tradition  that  he  was  always  in  it. 
You  may  bet  your  bottom  dollar  on  that,  sir.  They've 
a  queer  way  here  of  showing  the  reverence  they  talk  so 
big  about." 

"It  is  a  queer  business,"  said  I,  "  but  aren't  the 
visitors  most  to  blame  ?  " 

"  For  encouraging  it,  or  even  enduring  it,  you  mean. 
Oh,  yes,  Stratford  wouldn't  put  it  forward  if  it  didn't 
pay."  My  friend  uttered  this  with  a  sniff  of  contempt, 
which  he  followed  by  a  muttered  quotation,  whereof  I 
caught  the  words,  "  bisson  conspectuities,"  and  no  more. 

"  The  Guild  Chapel  was  herein  Shakespeare's  time," 
he  said,  pointing  to  it  as  soon  as  he  had  cooled  down. 


THE  HATHAWAY  HOUSE          91 

"  No  doubt  of  that,  and  he  must  have  seen  it  every 
time  he  went  in  or  out  of  his  house.  Halliwell-Phillipps 
says  the  bell  must  have  been  among  the  latest  sounds 
that  fell  upon  his  ears  during  the  last  night  that  he  spent 
on  earth — that  it  may  have  been  the  last  sound  he 
heard." 

Mr.  Fairfield  pondered,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  chapel 
tower.  "  That  is  very  suggestive,"  he  said,  almost 
under  his  breath — 

"  And  now  his  grief  may  be  compared  well, 
To  one  sore  sick,  that  hears  the  passing-bell "  . 

"  But  have  we  still  the  same  bell?  "  he  inquired  sus- 
piciously, a  moment  later. 

"  From  what  Halliwell-Phillipps  goes  on  to  say,  it  is 
clear  it  has  been  recast." 

"  It's  the  same  with  everything  in  Stratford."  There 
was  no  little  vindictiveness  in  my  friend's  voice  as  he 
uttered  this  wail. 

"  It's  pleasanter  to  think  of  him  here  than  in  Henley 
Street."  When  Mr.  Fairfield  said  this,  we  had  left  the 
garden,  and  were  once  more  standing  in  Chapel  Street, 
peering  down  at  the  wire  coverings  of  the  foundations 
below  us.  "  No  muck-heap  in  front  of  New  Place,  sir !  " 

I  tried,  I  really  did  try,  to  hold  my  tongue,  but  the 
temptation  to  destroy  this  fond  illusion  was  too  much 
for  me. 

"  Halliwell-Phillipps  says  a  most  loathsome,  fetid 
ditch  ran  alongside  of  the  house." 

"  I  don't  believe  it." 

"  I'm  afraid  he  proves  it ;  and,  after  all,  is  it  unlikely  ? 
No  one  who  lived  in  a  little  place  like  this  300  years  ago 
could  escape  something  of  the  kind.  Why,  even  less 
than  150  years  ago  Garrick  described  Stratford  as  the 
most  dirty,  wretched-looking  town  in  the  kingdom." 

"  I  will  not  believe  it,  sir !  "  And  Mr.  Fairfield's  lips 
were  so  tightly  set  that  I  dropped  the  subject. 


92     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

After  this  we  moved  on  to  the  High  Street  and  in- 
spected the  exterior  of  the  Harvard  House. 

"  It  must  have  been  thought  a  fine  place  when  it  was 
built,"  said  my  client,  as  he  scanned  the  carved  wood- 
work. "  I  daresay  Shakespeare  stopped  for  a  moment 
more  than  once  to  watch  the  builders  at  work." 

"  Would  you  care,"  I  asked,  "  to  see  the  Washington 
Irving  room  at  the  Red  Horse — the  room  he  mentions 
in  the  '  Sketch  Book '  ?  They  show  you  the  chair  in 
which  he  sat  and  the  poker  he  speaks  of.  They  call  it 
Geoffery  Crayon's  sceptre." 

"  I  remember  something  about  it,"  was  the  answer. 
"  No,  I  don't  want  to  see  the  place.  Don't  think  I 
sniff  at  the  '  Sketch  Book '  or  at  Washington  Irving 
either.  But — but — "  here  for  the  first  time  in  my 
experience  he  hesitated,  as  if  at  a  loss  for  words  to  ex- 
press his  meaning.  Then  with  a  rush  he  explained 
himself.  "  It's  natural  enough  for  the  landlord  to  raise 
a  shrine  to  him — that's  all  in  the  way  of  business — but 
this,  sir,  is  Shakespeare's  town,  and  to  burn  incense  to 
Washington  Irving  here,  seems  to  me  a  foolish  busi- 
ness." 

We  devoted  the  rest  of  that  day  to  scouring  the  country 
round  Stratford,  and  in  the  evening  my  fellow-pilgrim 
buried  himself  in  a  volume  of  the  Bard. 

"  Mr.  Lee  says  that  money  was  worth  eight  times  its 
present  value  in  Shakespeare's  day,"  said  he,  turning  to 
me  and  waiting  for  an  answer. 

"  Yes,  that's  my  recollection  of  what  he  says,  and  I 
feel  sure  that  Halliwell-Phillipps  says  it  was  worth 
even  more." 

We  had  been  discussing  Shakespeare's  fortune  in  the 
New  Place  Gardens  that  morning,  and  the  comparative 
values  of  money  then  and  now  had  been  referred  to. 

"  Then  how  do  you  account  for  the  charges  in  the 
tavern  bill  which  Poins  stole  out  of  FalstafFs  pocket  ? 
No  doubt  the  items  were  those  current  at  the  time  the 
play  was  written.  It  isn't  likely  that  Shakespeare 


THE  HATHAWAY  HOUSE          93 

bothered  himself  to  quote  prices  as  they  were  in  Henry 
IV's  time." 

"  Even  if  he  did,  that  wouldn't  get  rid  of  your  diffi- 
culty," said  I,  who  had  a  pretty  clear  recollection  of 
those  tavern  items ;  "  money  was  still  more  valuable 
then." 

"It  is  certainly  very  odd,"  and  Mr.  Fairfield  read 
out  the  bill  of  charges : — 

"  Item,  a  Capon  2/2. 

Item,  Sauce  4-/. 

Item,  Sack,  2  gallons  5/8. 

Item,  Anchovies  and  sack  after  supper  2/6. 

Item,  Bread  Jd." 

We  took  a  turn  out  of  doors  that  night  before  going 
to  bed.  Our  stroll  led  us  past  the  site  of  New  Place 
and  near  the  church.  In  the  forlorn  hope  of  finding 
the  churchyard  open  we  tried  the  wicket.  It  was  un- 
fastened, and  we  were  able  to  ramble  about  and  make 
such  an  examination  of  the  exterior  of  the  vast  building 
as  the  darkness  permitted.  We  came  at  length  to  the 
terrace  walk  above  the  river,  but  the  prospect  which  is 
so  beautiful  by  day  was  disappointing  then.  The  stream 
lay  below  us,  almost  motionless  and  clearly  distinguish- 
able, but  the  town-meadows  on  the  other  side  were 
hidden  by  a  thick  bank  of  mist,  solid  to  the  eye  as  a 
rampart  of  cotton  wool,  which  starting  from  the  water- 
line,  rose  to  a  height  of  twelve  feet  or  thereabouts.  It 
obliterated  all  objects  behind  it,  while  above  it  the  trees 
rose  clear  and  distinct  against  the  sky.  I  shivered  as  I 
gazed. 

"  '  You  need  not  regard  me,  sir ;  I  am  fever-proof  like- 
wise agur,'  "  quoted  Mr.  Fairfield  jovially,  as  he  fumbled 
at  one  of  the  pockets  of  his  light  overcoat.  I  saw  his 
arm  rise.  Some  white  body  passed  through  the  air  and 
fell  with  a  splash  into  the  middle  of  the  river. 

"  It's  that  plaque,"  he  observed.  "  I  thought  I  might 
get  a  chance  of  disposing  of  it  to-night.  And  now,  sir, 
whereabouts  in  the  chancel  is  Shakespeare's  grave  ?  " 


94     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

We  strolled  up  to  the  church  and  stood  on  the  site  of 
the  bone-house,  which  the  poet  had  in  his  mind  when 
he  framed  the  lines  which  are  cut  upon  his  gravestone. 

"  There,"  said  I,  pointing  to  the  last  but  one  of  the 
north  windows,  "  is  the  monument — and  the  grave  is  a 
little  beyond." 

"  We  might  have  a  look  at  the  Birth-house  before 
turning  in,"  said  my  companion,  when  we  were  once 
more  in  Chapel  Street.  "  It  seems  hard  that  a  man 
can't  look  at  the  place  by  day,  because  it's  infested  by 
a  horde  of  young  bandits,  itching  to  tell  him  that 
Shakespeare  got  drunk.  I  wonder  how  that  vile  screed 
goes  on !  " 

We  lingered  awhile  before  the  two  houses  in  Henley 
Street,  and  then  made  our  way  into  Guild  Street,  and 
through  the  iron  gate  peered  across  the  garden  behind 
them. 

There  were  tendrils  of  young  ivy  showing  over  the 
top  of  the  wall.  Mr.  Fairfield  plucked  a  few  leaves  and 
placed  them  in  his  pocket-book. 


CHAPTEE  VII 
MR.  FAIRFIELD  LEARNS  "  ALL  ABOUT  SHAKESPEARE  " 

WE  made  a  longer  stay  in  Stratford  than  we  had 
originally  intended.  The  country  round  was  so  beauti- 
ful and  the  roads  were  so  good  that  we  were  loth  to 
bring  our  holiday  to  an  end. 

Shakespeare's  town  is  a  convenient  centre  for  many 
excursions.  We  rode  over  to  Warwick  several  times. 
The  Castle  and  the  Leycester  Hospital  were  not  places 
to  be  inspected  in  a  hurry ;  and  out  of  the  town  itself 
were  Guy's  Cliff  and  the  Saxon  mill  just  beyond  it. 
Charlecote,  too,  could  not  be  passed  over;  Worcester 
and  Coventry  were  within  riding  distance,  and  Evesham 
was  close  at  hand. 

In  that  part  of  England  the  very  names  upon  the 
finger-posts  bear  a  charm.  Hampton-Lucy,  Ternple- 
Grafton,  Wilmcote,  Clifford-Chambers,  Henley-in-Arden 
fall  upon  the  ear  like  music,  and  the  words  "  To  Strat- 
ford "  make  a  man  thrill,  no  matter  how  often  he  may 
come  upon  them. 

We  visited  nearly  all  of  the  eight  villages  mentioned  in 
the  rhyme  that  Stratford  tradition  ascribes  to  Shake- 
speare. Temple-Grafton,  the  "  hungry  Grafton  "  of  this 
rhyme,  had  a  mournful  interest  to  the  American  citizen, 
for  he  had  a  conviction  that  the  marriage  which  he 
thought  so  unfortunate  was  celebrated  there.  The 
church  is  modern,  and  the  registers  do  not  go  back  so 
far  as  Shakespeare's  time. 

We  rode  to  Bidford  and  fed  the  fish  from  the  quaint 
old  bridge,  which,  it  is  said,  the  monks  built.  The  Fal- 
con still  remains,  but  it  is  no  longer  a  tavern.  We  did 

95 


96     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

not  attempt  to  find  the  spot  where  the  crab-tree  grew, 
under  which,  according  to  Stratford  tradition,  Shake- 
speare slept  for  so  many  hours. 

At  Cleeve  Pryor,  that  lies  not  far  from  Bidford,  the 
hank  of  the  Avon  rises  to  a  bold  cliff.  Below  is  the  old 
mill,  and  the  tourist  who  crosses  the  weir  comes  upon 
a  ruined  lock  almost  hidden  in  vegetation.  "  '  Earth 
has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair,' "  was  Mr.  Fair- 
field's  comment. 

We  saw,  too,  the  old  mill  at  Stratford,  and  crossed 
the  footbridge  that  leads  to  the  town-meadows,  plucking 
as  we  went  the  water  forget-me-nots  which  grow  by  the 
weir. 

We  lunched  in  many  an  old  inn  that  was  standing 
when  Shakespeare  was  a  boy,  and  had  many  a  gossip 
with  the  simple,  cordial  folk  that  kept  them  ;  but  wher- 
ever we  went  nothing  that  we  heard  about  him  bore  any 
reference  to  his  fame  as  a  writer. 

"  If  I  didn't  read  a  piece  every  night,"  said  Mr. 
Fairfield  as  we  rode  towards  Stratford,  after  one 
of  these  gossips,  "  I  verily  believe  I  should  go  back  to 
London  with  a  vague  general  notion  that  Shakespeare 
wrote  some  plays,  and  with  a  strong  but  unaccountable 
conviction  that  he  was  a  person  to  be  reverenced,  firstly, 
because  he  was  born  and  died  at  Stratford,  and,  secondly, 
because  he  stole  deer,  got  drunk,  slept  like  a  hog, 
and  married  Anne  Hathaway " 

He  broke  off  to  watch  the  evolutions  of  the  bats, 
which  were  flying  about  us  in  the  gathering  twilight, 
and  at  the  same  moment,  a  cockchafer  blundered  past, 
within  an  inch  of  his  nose. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  he  asked,  almost  pulling  up ;  "  that 
humming  thing !  " 

"  A  cockchafer." 

"  Is  that  a  scaly  beast  ?  " 

"  To  the  best  of  my  belief  it  has  a  full  suit  of  armour." 

"  Bless  my  soul !  "  was  his  ejaculation ;  and  he  gazed 
about  him  in  a  sort  of  rapture. 


"  ALL  ABOUT  SHAKESPEARE  "     97 

"  When  I  caught  sight  of  those  bats,"  he  explained, 
"  I  was  reminded  of  a  line  of  Ben  Jonson's,  and  the 
next  instant  that  insect  nearly  flew  into  my  face.  Now, 
Ben  mentions  him  in  the  very  next  line,  but  I  never 
knew  what  he  meant — 

The  giddy  flitter-mice  with  leather  wings  ! 
The  scaly  beetles  with  their  habergeons, 
That  make  a  humming  murmur  as  they  fly  ! 

Isn't  it  pleasant  to  think  of  old  Ben  riding  along  a 
country  lane  some  fine  evening,  300  years  ago,  and  see- 
ing the  bats  and  the  cockchafers,  just  as  we  see  them 
now — and  making  verses  on  them  ?  I  must  remember 
to  make  a  note  of  this." 

"I've  been  thinking  of  an  old  song  Garrick  wrote 
after  the  Stratford  Jubilee,"  he  burst  out,  a  little  later. 
"  It's  poor  stuff,  but  its  lyrical,  and  there's  a  pretty 
line  in  it  about  Shakespeare — 

Old  Ben,  Thomas  Otway,  John  Dryden, 

And  half  a  score  more  we  take  pride  in  ; 

Of  famous  Will  Congreve  we  boast,  too,  the  skill, 

But  the  Will  of  all  Wills  was  the  Warwickshire  Will: 

Warwickshire  Will, 

Matchless  still ; 
For  the  Will  of  all  Wills  was  the  Warwickshire  Will." 

My  friend  shook  his  head  over  the  guide-book  asser- 
tion that  the  Arden  House  at  Wilmcote  was  the  home 
of  Shakespeare's  mother.  But  when  we  journeyed 
thither,  the  kindness  of  its  occupants  and  the  charm  of 
the  old  house  itself,  vanquished  him ;  and  he  waxed  en- 
thusiastic over  all  about  it,  from  the  ancient  oven  in  the 
outbuildings  to  the  great  cat  Dick,  who  was  sunning 
himself  on  a  distant  wall,  and  who  in  response  to  his 
master's  call  came  racing  up  to  us  like  a  dog. 

In  Stratford  itself  we  saw  the  "  Droeshout  "  and  Ely 
Palace  portraits — the  one  in  the  picture  gallery  of  the 
Memorial  buildings,  and  the  other  in  the  librarian's 
room  above  the  Birth-place  Museum.  Neither  was  pro- 
tected by  a  fire-proof  safe. 
7 


98    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

As  we  studied  the  "  Droeshout,"  we  wondered 
whether  that  grave  and  comely  head  could  have  been 
the  original  of  the  engraving  prefixed  to  the  First 
Folio:  the  "figure  that  thou  here  seest  put "  of  Ben 
Jonson's  verses,  the  only  portrait  of  Shakespeare  that 
has  come  down  to  us  with  a  clear  record. 

"  You  must  see  the  grave  and  bust  before  we  go ; 
and  to-morrow's  our  last  day,"  was  my  remark  as  we 
stood  in  the  High  Street  one  breezy  morning,  outside 
the  corner  shop  that  was  for  many  years  the  home  of 
the  poet's  younger  daughter. 

"  True,  and  I  must  hear  the  rest  of  that  doggerel 
rhyme.  I  have  a  theory  about  that  rhyme,  and  I  want 
to  confirm  it." 

The  fates  were  propitious  that  morning ;  for  even 
as  he  spoke  we  saw  not  far  ahead  of  us  a  group  of  three 
boys,  and  as  we  approached  them  they  eyed  us  as  a 
butcher  may  be  supposed  to  eye  an  ox. 

A  bland  smile  lit  up  Mr.  Fairfield's  countenance,  and 
he  paused  and  gazed  around  him  as  if  drinking  in  the 
beauties  of  the  High  Street.  This  was  enough.  The 
three  demons  were  about  us  in  a  moment,  and  the 
familiar  words,  "All  about  Shakespeare,"  were  once 
more  in  our  ears.  It  was,  I  blush  to  confess,  Sunday 
morning,  and  the  time  was  near  noon. 

"  If  you  say  it  slowly,  I'll  give  you  a  penny  each," 
said  the  seeker  after  knowledge,  and  a  pencil  and  paper 
were  in  his  hand. 

One  boy  took  up  the  story,  and  now  and  again  his 
companions  joined  in.  Except  where  the  recital  sub- 
sided into  unmitigated  prose,  the  rhythmical  swing 
which  we  had  noticed  a  few  days  earlier  was  strictly 
observed;  and  at  certain  pauses,  evidently  familiar  to 
all  three,  each  boy  stamped  his  foot  on  the  ground. 

The  following  is  a  true  and  correct  transcript  of  the 
matter,  which  on  that  Sunday  morning  in  September, 
1901,  the  boys  recited  to  us  in  the  High  Street  of 
Shakespeare's  town : — 


L  0  ^  T>  0  ^ 
Printed  by  Ifaac  Iaggard,and  Ed.  Blount.    i  dz  j. 


WILLIAM   SHAKESPKARE. 
(From  the  First  Folio.) 


"ALL  ABOUT  SHAKESPEARE"     99 

Shakespeare  stole  a  deer 
Out  of  Charlecote  Park  ; 
He  gave  it  to  the  poor  people. 
He  saw  some  men  a-ploughing  on  Monday  ; 
He  asked  them  why  they  was  ploughing  on  Sunday  : 
They  said  it  wasn't  Sunday,  it  was  Monday. 
He  slept  from  Saturday  night  till  Monday  morning  ; 
He  got  up  in  a  crabtree.     He  saw — 
Piping  Peb  worth,  dancing  Mars  ton, 
Haunted  Hillborough,  hungry  Grafton, 
Dodging  Kxhall,  papist  Wixford, 
Beggarly  Broom  and  drunken  Bidford. 
It's  got  on  the  tomb  of  Shakespeare's  grave  : — 
Good  friend,  for  Jesus'  sake  forbear 
To  dig  the  dust  enclosed  here  ; 
Blest  be  the  man  that  spares  these  stones, 
And  curst  be  he  that  moves  my  bones. 

John  Harvard's  house  was  built  in  1596 :  the  man  that  founded 
Harvard  College  in  America  near  Boston  in  the  State  of  Massa- 
chusetts. 

John  Harvard  was  an  American. 

The  American  fountain  was  given  by  William  George  Childs 
of  Philadelphia  on  the  Queen  Victoria's  Jubilee  1887.  There's  a 
stone  laid  by  Lady  Hodgson,  June  the  twentieth  1887. 

At  Anne  Hatha way's  cottage  there's  a  stone  that  Charles  Dickens 
sat  on  to  write  his  name  in  the  register. 

Mrs.  Baker  tumbled  downstairs  and  broke  her  leg :  she  was 
eighty-five. 

Every  tree  and  flower  planted  in  Shakespeare's  garden  was  men- 
tioned in  Shakespeare's  plays. 

Shakespeare's  house  was  divided  in  three  parts — one  the  public, 
one  the  butcher's  shop,  and  one  the  woollen  shop. 

There  is  a  room  where  Shakespeare  was  born  1564 :  died  1616  : 
Sir  Walter  Scott  wrote  his  name  on  the  window  with  his  ring. 

He  was  fifty-two  when  he  died :  Anne  Hathaway  when  she  died 
was  sixty-seven. 

There  were  few  people  in  the  High  Street  that  morn- 
ing to  mark  the  long  grave  tourist  who  was  writing 
from  the  boys'  dictation  on  a  sheet  of  paper  that  fluttered 
in  the  wind,  and  who  had  to  break  off  so  often  to  en- 
treat them  not  to  go  too  fast.  The  American  part  of  the 
recital  seemed  to  occasion  him  much  inward  anguish. 

"  I've  settled  it,"  said  he  with  bland  triumph  when 
we  were  by  ourselves  once  more.  "  I  felt  pretty  sure 
the  other  day  what  that  stamp  meant,  and  now  I  know. 


100    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

The  boys  are  accustomed  to  recite  in  unison  and  that's 
how  they  keep  time.  Do  you  know  what  that  means, 
sir  ?  "  And  seeing  from  my  face  that  I  did  not,  he  went 
on,  laying  an  emphasising  finger  on  my  arm — "  It  means, 
they  teach  that  hogwash  in  the  schools  here  ". 

POSTSCRIPT 
"HE  WAS  DROONK,  Y'E  KNOO!" 

In  Stratford  town  there  dwelt  a  man, 

And  Stratford  loves  to  think 
Not  even  Master  Caliban 

Was  such  a  slave  to  drink : 
Morn,  noon,  and  night  throughout  his  span 
He  emptied  cup,  he  emptied  can ; 
Adown  his  throat  the  liquor  ran 

Like  soapsuds  down  a  sink. 

And,  coupled  with  his  high  renown 
As  master-sot  of  Stratford  town, 
Another  gift  is  handed  down  ; 

In  equal  honour  kept : 
Three  hundred  years  ago  he  died 
And  yet  to-day  the  countryside 
Remembers  with  a  thrill  of  pride 

How  massively  he  slept. 

And  while  the  universal  earth 
Extols  his  wisdom  and  his  worth : 
Lord  of  our  tears  and  of  our  mirth, 

Master  of  music  too  ! 
Here  in  this  little  home  of  thine 
Poor  Tom,  who  cadges  at  the  shrine, 
Hails  thee  as  brother,  half-divine, 

For — "  He  was  droonk,  y'e  knoo  !  " 


CHAPTEE  VIII 
SHAKESPEARE'S  CHURCH 

"  THE  place  is  quite  a  cathedral,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield,  as 
next  morning  we  were  making  our  way  along  the  lime 
avenue  to  the  church  porch.  "  I'm  glad  we  didn't  come 
on  the  machines,"  he  went  on,  as  he  pointed  to  a  notice 
announcing  that  all  bicycles  must  be  left  with  the  at- 
tendant, and  that  a  fee  of  one  penny  would  be  charged. 
"  The  attendant,  I  observe,  is  of  tender  years.  I  would 
not  entrust  my  bicycle  to  him ;  but  I  am  glad  to  find 
that  there  is  one  boy  in  Stratford  earning  pennies  in  a 
quasi-legitimate  way."  My  friend  was  in  a  merry  mood, 
and  he  laughed  at  his  own  facetiousness. 

The  verger  in  the  long  cassock  gave  us  tickets  of  ad- 
mission in  exchange  for  our  sixpences.  There  were  no 
noisy  excursionists  in  the  porch  that  morning.  There 
was  a  fair  sprinkling  of  visitors  in  the  church,  however, 
and  we  could  see  that  there  was  quite  a  little  gathering 
of  them  at  the  altar-rail. 

"  We'll  have  a  look  round  the  place  first,  and  leave 
the  grave  and  monument  till  the  last,"  said  my  friend  ; 
"  the  coast  may  be  clear  then." 

We  examined  the  two  old  registers  in  a  glass  case, 
and  read  the  entries  of  Shakespeare's  baptism  and  death. 
There  was  another  glass  case  which  contained  specimens 
of  the  wares  on  sale.  I  purchased  the  official  guide-book 
to  the  church,  and  I  suggested  that  we  should  buy 
something  else  as  a  souvenir  of  the  visit ;  but  my  com- 
panion shied  at  this ;  he  remembered  that  unfortunate 
plaque.  I  pointed  out  to  him  that  there  was  a  separate 

101 


102     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

visitors'  book  for  Americans,  and  here  again  I  met  with  a 
rebuff.  The  autograph  of  James  C.  Fairfield  of  Chicago 
was  not  added  to  that  volume. 

We  wandered  about  the  building  guide-book  in  hand. 
I  am  afraid  our  thoughts  were  bent  on  the  tomb  and 
monument,  and  we  viewed  the  body  of  the  church  with 
no  great  interest.  "  All  around  is  Shakespeare's  exclu- 
sive property,"  as  Sir  Walter  Scott  entered  in  his 
journal. 

"  There  is  a  chance  here  that  you  must  not  miss,"  I 
said  at  length,  pointing  to  a  notice  stuck  up  in  one  of 
the  windows.  This  notice  invited  the  visitor  to  pay 
the  expense  of  filling  the  window  with  stained  glass, 
and  not  only  stated  what  the  cost  would  be,  but,  with 
the  intention  of  saving  the  American  pilgrim  all  possible 
trouble,  it  went  on  to  give  the  equivalent  in  dollars. 
Mr.  Fairfield's  lip  curled. 

"  It's  very  considerate ;  very  considerate  indeed,"  he 
remarked.  "  The  calculation  seems  to  be  quite  correct." 
But  he  showed  no  sign  of  producing  his  cheque-book. 

"  '  The  south  transept  is  sometimes  called  the  Ameri- 
can Chapel,'  "  I  announced  from  the  official  guide-book. 
"  '  In  it  is  the  American  window  which  was  unveiled  by 
the  American  ambassador  in  1896.'  It  contains,  I  see, 
the  figures  of  a  number  of  saints  and  bishops,  including 
Dr.  William  Seabury,  first  Bishop  of  Connecticut,  whose 
consecration  at  Aberdeen  in  1787  is  also  represented. 
You  have  heard  of  the  bishop,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Old  man  Seabury  !  "  answered  my  friend,  with  an 
air  of  grave,  yet  genial  recognition  that  was,  of  course, 
purely  ironical ; — "  old  man  Seabury  !  His  name,  sir,  is 
a  household  word  in  the  United  States.  I  would  not," 
he  went  on,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  "  have  missed 
seeing  his  portrait  for  worlds.  One  might  have  known 
it  would  be  in  Shakespeare's  church.  Let  us  hope  they 
take  care  of  it,  and  put  it  into  a  fireproof  safe  every 
night." 

"  At  the  west  end  of  the  church,"  I  continued,  "  is  a 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHURCH       103 

copy  of  the  agreement  drawn  up  between  the  bishop 
and  his  consecrators.  According  to  the  guide-book,  this 
appears  to  be  of  such  interest  to  American  church-people 
that  it  has  been  printed,  and  a  copy  can  be  obtained 
from  the  custodian  for  twopence — shall  I  get  one  for 
you  ?  " 

"  You  give  me  the  twopence  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about 
Shakespeare  twice  over,"  was  Mr.  Fairfield's  answer. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  an  American  church-per- 
son," I  said,  eyeing  him  with  some  sternness. 

"  What  little  I  do  in  that  line,  sir,  is  with  the  Ply- 
mouth Brethren,"  was  the  retort,  delivered  with  quiet 
pride.  "  That  is  a  quotation  from  '  Punch ' ;  not  a 
statement  of  fact,"  he  confessed  a  moment  later. 

"  This  really  is  interesting,"  I  said  in  all  seriousness, 
when  we  had  reached  the  north  transept  and  were  look- 
ing at  the  screen  which  shuts  off  the  north  end  of  it. 
"  The  guide-book  says  that  it  was  the  old  chancel-screen, 
and  that  through  its  doors  was  doubtless  carried  the 
body  of  William  Shakespeare,  to  be  laid  to  rest  before 
the  altar." 

"  Then  why  in  the  name  of  wonder  has  it  been 
brought  here?" 

"  The  guide-book  says  it  was  removed  in  the  so-called 
restoration  in  1842.  I  think  I  have  heard  something  of 
that  restoration.  It  was  then,  or  perhaps  earlier,  that 
the  original  tombstone  was  taken  away  and  a  new  one 
substituted  for  it." 

"  The  person  responsible  for  that  restoration  ought  to 
have  been  whipped  at  the  cart's  tail,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield 
savagely.  "  I  did  not  know  that  the  tombstone  was  not 
here." 

"  This  guide-book  merely  states  that  the  inscription 
has  been  recut;  but  I  am  certain  Halliwell-Phillipps 
says  somewhere  that  the  present  tombstone  is  modern." 

"  Well  I'm  gormed !  "  said  my  fellow-pilgrim  in  awe- 
struck accents  a  minute  later.  "  I  deprecate  the  use  of 
such  an  expression  in  a  place  of  worship,  but  really  I 


104    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

am  gormed,  and  nothing  milder  will  meet  the  case." 
He  was  standing  before  a  notice-board,  which  stated, 
that  any  one  wishing  to  play  the  organ  must  pay  a  fee 
of  half-a-crown,  and  that  the  performance  must  not  ex- 
tend beyond  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

"  They  told  us  at  the  Hathaway  house  that  Barnum 
made  an  offer  to  buy  their  whole  concern,  lock,  stock 
and  barrel,"  he  continued,  his  eyes  glued  upon  the  notice. 
*'  If  he'd  come  on  here,  I  guess  this  edifice  would  have 
taught  him  a  few  wrinkles  in  the  show  business." 

"  I've  a  great  mind  to  have  half-a-crown's  worth," 
was  his  next  remark  ;  and  he  shot  a  glance  at  me,  and 
then  looked  over  to  where  a  second  cassocked  verger 
was  hovering  near  us. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  give  me  time  to  get  outside  first," 
I  pleaded,  for  I  knew  that  he  was  no  musician. 

"  But  I  must  have  some  one  to  blow  the  bellows.  I 
don't  know  much  about  organs,  but  I  do  know  that. 
And,  by-the-by,  I  rather  fancy  you  have  to  play  with 
your  feet  as  well  as  your  hands.  That's  unfortunate — 
but  after  all,  a  cat  can  have  but  its  claws :  a  man  can 
do  no  more  than  his  best."  Mr.  Fair-field  said  this 
with  the  air  of  one  who  strengthens  himself  in  some 
high  resolve. 

"  I  will  smoke  a  pipe  outside,"  said  I. 

' '  No  need  for  you  to  go,  sir.  If  I  so  far  forgot  myself 
as  to  perform  on  that  instrument,  and  my  music  did  not 
give  satisfaction,  I  should  tell  them  I  was  an  American 
citizen." 

"  And  what  would  happen  then?  " 

A  bland  smile  overspread  my  companion's  features. 

"  They  would  implore  me  to  resume  operations,  and 
they  would  offer  to  put  my  portrait  in  one  of  the  windows 
of  the  American  chapel — I  paying  expenses  and  contri- 
buting something  to  the  restoration  fund." 

"  We  must  not  overlook  the  third  window  from  the 
end,  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  chancel,"  said  I,  to 
change  the  subject.  My  national  pride  had  been  a  little 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHURCH       105 

irritated  ever  since  we  had  entered  the  church,  and  my 
friend's  sarcasm  carried  a  sting.  "  '  The  subjects  '  " — 
here  I  was  quoting  from  the  official  guide — " '  are 
Scriptural  illustrations  of  the  seven  ages  of  man,  from 
the  play  of  "  As  you  like  it ".' ' 

Mr.  Fairfield  looked  at  me  with  an  unbelieving  smile, 
and  then  he  looked  at  the  window. 

"  I  thought  you  were  joking,"  he  said. 

"  I  am  reading  word  for  word  from  the  guide-book." 
And  I  went  on — "  '  There  is  Moses  the  infant,  mewling 
and  puking  in  his  nurse's  arms;  then  Samuel  is  the 
schoolboy,  creeping  like  snail  unwillingly  to  school '  " 

"  Ah,  the  whining  schoolboy  with  his  satchel  and 
shining  morning  face,"  interposed  my  listener.  "  This 
is  indeed  seeing  Samuel  in  a  new  light." 

"  '  Jacob  the  lover  with  sonnet  to  his  mistress'  eye- 
brow,' " — I  continued,  disregarding  the  interruption, 
"  '  Joshua  the  soldier,  full  of  strange  oaths  and  bearded 
like  the  pard.' ' 

"  I  didn't  know  that  Joshua  swore  like  a  trooper," 
broke  in  Mr.  Fairfield  once  again ;  "I  think  none  the 
better  of  him  for  it.  But  possibly  the  donors  of  that 
window  think  otherwise — one  can't  help  remembering 
how  Stratford  clings  to  the  legend  that  its  idol  was  a 
toss-pot." 

"  Your  interruptions  are  somewhat  irreverent,"  I  sug- 
gested with  due  severity.  "  Please  allow  me  to  go  on." 

"  I  would  not  stop  you  for  the  world,"  was  the  polite 
answer. 

"  '  Up  above,'  "  I  resumed,  "  '  Solomon  is  the  justice, 
full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances.' '  Here  I 
paused,  for  the  comicality  of  the  thing  was  hard  to 
resist. 

"  In  my  mind's  eye  I  see  him  in  his  fair  round  belly, 
with  good  capon  lined,"  murmured  my  companion,  his 
grave  eyes  dancing  with  merriment ;  then,  with  por- 
tentous gravity  he  continued,  "  Keally,  I  must  ask  you  to 
read  no  more.  My  moral  sense  revolts  from  such  a 
picture  of  the  Wise  Man.  Does  the  guide-book  give 


106     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

the  name  of  the  genius  who  is  responsible  for  this 
window?" 

I  had  anticipated  some  question  of  this  kind,  and  was 
prepared  with  the  answer.  But  I  did  not  hurry ;  my 
national  pride  was  still  smarting.  "  The  guide-book 
says  that  the  window,"  I  began,  slowly,  "ah,  here  it 
is,"  and  I  read  aloud — "  '  has  been  erected  by  the  vol- 
untary offerings  of  Americans  who  visit  the  shrine  of 
the  chief  of  poets '." 

A  faint  whistle  of  astonishment  escaped  Mr.  Fair- 
field,  as  he  stood  devouring  the  window  with  his  eyes. 
Then  he  turned  to  me,  a  smile  of  triumph  on  his  lips  :— 

"  I  guess  Uncle  Sam  got  back  a  bit  of  his  own  here," 
he  explained ;  and  seeing  that  I  did  not  understand,  he 
added :  "  It's  a  practical  joke,  man ;  I  wish  Mark  Twain 
could  see  it !  " 

"  Some  of  your  guide-books  say,"  I  remarked,  "  that 
people  will  contribute  to  these  windows,  but  won't  con- 
tribute to  the  repair  of  the  church." 

"  I  don't  believe  my  countrymen  are  such  fools,"  as- 
serted the  scoffer,  without  a  trace  of  his  former  merri- 
ment. 

"  The  guide-book  also  says  that  parts  of  the  fabric  are 
in  imminent  danger." 

"  If  that's  true,  it's  about  time  your  Parliament  took 
charge  of  this  church,"  quoth  Mr.  Fairfield,  in  flaming 
wrath.  "  If  the  present  authorities  play  about  with  such 
toys  as  coloured  windows,  when  the  place  itself  is  not 
safe,  they  ought  to  be  taught  better,  or  transferred  to 
some  other  sphere  of  usefulness." 

"  There  is  the  grave,"  I  said,  when  at  length  we  stood 
before  the  altar-rail.  The  chancel  was  clear  of  visitors 
by  this  time. 

My  friend's  gaze  rested  for  a  moment  on  the  pave- 
ment before  us,  and  then  turned  to  the  monument. 

"  This  is  shameful,  abominable  !  "  he  exclaimed  in  hot 
wrath. 

"  What  is  ?  "  I  asked  in  astonishment. 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHURCH       107 

"  This  barrier.  You  can't  get  anything  like  a  full 
view  of  the  face  without  going  inside.  That  means 
another  fee,  of  course." 

"  My  dear  Fail-field,  this  is  the  altar-rail.  We  are  in 
a  parish  church,  not  a  mausoleum." 

I  spoke  in  a  tone  of  remonstrance,  for  I  thought  his 
wrath  unreasonable. 

"  It's  put  here  on  purpose,"  he  went  on  as  angrily  as 
ever ;  "  I  feel  sure  it  used  to  be  farther  back,  and  they've 
brought  it  forward  on  purpose." 

"  After  all,  what  does  it  matter  to  an  American  citi- 
zen ?  "  I  suggested.  I  had  bethought  me  of  his  sarcasm 
about  the  organ,  and  I  seized  my  opportunity. 

From  the  startled  expression  on  his  face,  I  saw  that 
he  thought  I  was  challenging  his  right  to  criticise  ;  that 
I  was  suggesting  he  was  a  foreigner,  one  who  had  no 
part  nor  lot  in  England's  Shakespeare. 

"  You  can  climb  over,"  I  added,  grimly. 

He  took  my  meaning  in  a  flash  and  he  broke  into  a 
smile. 

"  I  can't  afford  it,"  he  said ;  and  then  with  a  sudden 
seriousness  he  went  on  hastily,  "  that  was  a  silly  joke  of 
mine ;  very  ill-mannered,  too.  I  beg  your  pardon ;  I 
spoke  without  thought,  and  never  dreamed  of  your  tak- 
ing it  amiss."  And  he  held  out  his  hand. 

His  sorrow  was  so  manifest  as  he  proffered  the  olive- 
branch,  that  it  melted  me  to  confession. 

"  I  was  annoyed  only  because  I  felt  it  was  true. 
After  all,"  I  went  on  penitently,  "  every  man  is  a  little 
bit  of  his  own  country,  and  when  he  sees  her  holding 
out  the  hat  in  that  way  to  another  country — even 
America — it  makes  him  touchy." 

We  stood  gazing  at  the  tombstone,  each  trying  in 
some  dim  half-conscious  way  to  call  up  the  last  scene. 

"  Do  you  believe  he  wrote  the  lines  on  the  grave  ?  " 
asked  my  companion  at  length. 

"  I  am  disposed  to  think  he  did.  My  little  guide- 
book says  no  one  will  suppose  that  he  wrote  such 


108     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

doggerel  himself.  But  are  they  doggerel?  There  is 
no  sort  of  inspiration  about  the  four  lines,  but — 

Good  friend,  for  Jesus'  sake  forbear 
To  dig  the  dust  enclosed  here, 

seems  to  me  to  have  an  easy  homeliness  that  is  not  at 
all  un-Shakespearean,  and  the  last  two  lines — 

Blest  be  the  man  that  spares  these  stones, 
And  curst  be  he  that  moves  my  bones, 

are  not  what  I  should  call  doggerel.  There  seems  to 
me  a  certain  terse  vigour  about  the  whole  thing ;  and 
if  it  be  considered  from  the  standpoint  that  Shakespeare 
knew  it  was  the  practice  here  to  remove  remains  after 
a  decent  interval  of  interment,  to  the  bone-house,  into 
which  that  door  on  our  left  used  to  open,  and  the 
thought  of  his  own  remains  being  so  dealt  with  was  re- 
pugnant to  him,  can  any  one  say  that  even  he  could  have 
framed  an  epitaph  that  would  appeal  more  effectually  to 
the  illiterate  and  probably  superstitious  sextons  or  parish 
clerks,  who  would  have  control  over  the  grave  ?  " 

"  Your  Tennyson  thought  it  was  Shakespeare's,  any- 
how, and  he  was  a  pretty  good  judge  of  a  poetical 
article,"  quoth  Mr.  F  airfield,  and  he  proceeded  to  re- 
peat the  lines  he  had  in  mind : — 

"  My  Shakespeare's  curse  on  clown  or  knave, 
Who  will  not  let  his  ashes  rest." 

"Which  is  the  widow's  tomb?"  he  asked,  after  he 
had  been  to  the  extreme  south  end  of  the  altar-rail  to 
get  a  better  view  of  the  bust,  and  had  returned  to  my 
side  looking  very  discontented. 

"  The  one  on  the  left  of  Shakespeare's,  and  the 
daughter  Susannah's  is  the  third  from  the  right.  There 
is  a  quaint  and  very  pretty  poetical  epitaph  on  hers. 
My  clerical  guide-book  calls  it  an  amusing  rhyme ;  I 
will  read  it  to  you  : — 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHURCH       109 

"  Witty  above  her  sex,  but  that's  not  all, 

Wise  to  salvation  was  good  Mistress  Hall. 

Something  of  Shakespeare  was  in  that,  but  this 

Wholly  of  Him  with  whom  she's  now  in  bliss. 

Then,  passenger,  hast  ne'er  a  tear, 

To  weep  with  her  that  wept  with  all  ? 

That  wept  yet  set  herself  to  cheer 

Them  up  with  comforts  cordial. 

Her  love  shall  live,  her  mercy  spread, 

When  thou  hast  ne'er  a  tear  to  shed." 

"  Very  diverting  indeed,"  was  Mr.  Fairfield's  sardonic 
comment  when  I  had  finished.  After  a  pause  he  went 
on  :  "  There  will  be  trouble  here  if  ever  old  Brer  Tarrypin 
comes  and  reads  it.  You  may  have  forgotten,"  he  ex- 
plained, "  that  if  old  Brer  Tarrypin  was  taken  with  one 
of  those  spells  of  his,  folks  had  to  sit  up  with  him, 
because  he  laughed  so  loud  and  he  laughed  so  long.  I 
hope  you  know  '  Uncle  Bemus '." 

" '  Brer  Tarrypin  wuz  de  out'nes'  man,' "  was  my 
only  answer ;  but  Mr.  Fairfield  accepted  it  as  more  than 
satisfactory. 

Certain  sounds  to  our  rear  warned  us  that  a  horde 
of  pilgrims  was  approaching  the  shrine.  We  passed 
out  into  the  churchyard  and  made  our  way  to  the  terrace. 
Mr.  Fairfield  admitted  that  when  on  the  Bankside  I  had 
assured  him  that  there  was  no  more  beautiful  prospect 
in  England,  I  spoke  nothing  but  the  truth. 

There  is  a  rude  stone  seat  near  the  water's  edge,  and 
here  we  seated  ourselves  that  warm  September  morning 
and  sought  consolation  in  tobacco. 

"  It's  a  pity  that  money  has  to  be  made  out  of  this 
church  and  the  houses  in  Henley  Street,"  said  my  friend 
musingly. 

"  And  what  about  the  Hathaway  house  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  that's  worth  considering.  Taking  it 
at  its  best,  it's  only  a  picturesque  old  farmhouse  at  which 
possibly  the  woman  whom  Shakespeare  married  was 
brought  up.  That  sort  of  association  with  Shakespeare 
is  far  too  shadowy  to  enthuse  me." 


110     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  And  what  would  you  do  with  the  church  and  the 
two  houses?  " 

"  I  hardly  know  about  the  houses ;  but  I  think  the 
church  ought  to  be  in  the  hands  of  the  State.  Shake- 
speare's grave  is  one  of  the  biggest  things  in  the  whole 
world.  No  one  but  his  country  herself  ought  to  have 
control  of  it.  It's  a  little  gold  mine  if  it's  worked  for 
profit ;  but  for  the  sake  of  public  decency  there  ought 
to  be  no  money-making  about  it.  The  State  ought  to 
keep  the  church  up  as  a  national  monument.  I  wouldn't 
have  the  parson  interfered  with  as  regards  his  spiritual 
duties ;  but  I  would  have  the  church  so  controlled  that 
it  should  be  secure  against  wind  and  weather,  and  that 
a  man  could  reach  Shakespeare's  grave  without  having 
all  feeling  of  reverence  knocked  out  of  him  before  he 
got  there — surely  England  can  keep  up  Shakespeare's 
church  without  cadging  for  outside  help.  And  I'd  have 
it  bear  something  of  a  national  character.  Tennyson 
had  your  flag  on  his  coffin.  Why  not  have  the  flag  over 
Shakespeare's  monument,  and  why  shouldn't  the  men 
who  guard  it  be  old  soldiers  with  medals  on  their  breasts?  " 

Mr.  Fairfield  paused.  He  had  spoken  with  so  much 
intensity  that  he  was  out  of  breath.  He  wiped  his  brow 
and  relapsed  into  silence. 

"  Not  but  what  there's  something  very  stimulating 
to  a  business  mind  in  the  way  the  business  is  conducted 
here,"  he  resumed  in  his  usual  tone  of  polite  irony  a 
few  minutes  later.  He  had  cooled  down  and  was  look- 
ing at  the  ticket  of  admission  which  he  had  received  in 
the  porch.  I  had  not  kept  mine,  so  I  asked  him  for 
an  explanation. 

"  '  Admission  to  see  Shakespeare's  grave,  sixpence 
each,'  "  he  read  aloud.  "  '  All  children,  except  those  in 
arms,  must  be  paid  for.'  That  sounds  like  business." 

"  Perhaps  they  don't  want  children  in  the  church,"  I 
suggested. 

"  I  think  they  do,  sir — at  sixpence  a  head.  If  not, 
why  admit  them  at  all  ?  " 


SHAKESPEARE'S  CHURCH       111 

There  seemed  no  answer  to  this.  I  held  my  peace, 
and  Mr.  F airfield  continued  to  read  from  the  ticket. 

"  '  The  custodian  is  directed  to  admit  all  parishioners 
and  their  friends  with  them,  without  payment;  also 
clergymen  on  presentation  of  their  card  and  any  persons 
who  desire  to  enter  the  nave  only,  solely  for  the  purpose 
of  prayer  or  meditation.'  It's  weak,  sir,  very  weak  to 
let  those  persons  in  free,"  continued  Mr.  Fairfield  in 
the  tone  of  one  whose  sense  of  propriety  has  been  out- 
raged. "  What  business  has  any  visitor  to  want  to  pray 
or  meditate  in  Shakespeare's  church  ?  " 

"  You  mean  without  paying  for  it,"  I  suggested, 
entering  into  his  humour. 

"  Certainly,  sir ;  and  speaking  as  a  man  of  business,  I 
ask  you  why,  with  such  a  handsome  free  list — parishion- 
ers and  their  friends  with  them — with  them,  you  observe 
— and  clergymen " 

"  I  think  that  only  means  properly  ordained  clergy- 
men, not  mere  ministers  of  religion,"  I  broke  in,  anxious 
to  do  justice  between  the  authorities  and  their  censor. 

"  No  doubt !  no  doubt !  But  with  such  a  free  list, 
why  rob  the  treasury  by  letting  in  outsiders  at  all  ?  " 

"  Are  you  quite  just  ?  "  I  protested ;  "  the  admission 
is  hedged  round  with  so  many  provisos  that  the  trea- 
sury is  in  no  danger.  The  visitor's  purpose  must  be 
solely  that  of  prayer  or  meditation,  and  he  must  desire 
to  enter  the  nave  only.  Have  you  forgotten  the  broad 
gulf  before  the  altar-rail?  Surely  that  is  enough  to 
protect  the  authorities  against  the  risk  of  any  such 
person  obtaining  a  free  glimpse  of  the  valuable  com- 
mercial assets  behind  it." 

"  I  spoke  in  haste,"  admitted  my  client,  "  and  I  beg 
pardon.  I  had  forgotten  the  interval.  It  is  indeed  a 
rampart  against  fraud — or  '  as  a  moat  defensive  to  a 
house'.  But  I  still  hold,  sir,  that  the  indulgence  is  a 
mistake.  Think  of  the  extra  work  it  must  throw  on 
the  check-taker  in  the  porch  and  his  colleague  in  the 
chancel.  And  besides,  it  spoils  the  symmetry  of  the 


112     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

show-business  if  you  mention  prayer  or  meditation  on 
the  checks.  It  reminds  you  that  the  place  is  a  church  ; 
and  a  church,  where  all  children,  except  infants  in  arms, 
must  be  paid  for,  tickles  a  man's  sense  of  humour." 

Something  seemed  to  tickle  his  sense  of  humour 
very  powerfully  a  few  minutes  later,  for  he  burst  out 
laughing. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  he  explained,  "  that  any  one  who 
wanted  to  pray  or  meditate  without  paying  his  footing, 
would  have  a  bad  time  in  that  porch  before  he  got 
passed  in  ;  and  then  I  thought  of  what  a  sharp  look-out 
those  two  officials  would  keep  on  him  while  he  was  pur- 
suing his  devotions.  And  then,  sir,  it  occurred  to  me 
that  after  a  spell  of  prayer  and  meditation,  the  penitent 
might  forget  where  he  was,  and  might  make  for  the 
altar-rail ;  and,"  here  he  laughed  again,  "  I  thought  how 
disturbing  it  would  be  for  him  to  be  headed-off  by  the 
inside  gentleman  in  the  Noah's-ark  coat !  " 

"  It  wouldn't  happen,"  I  said,  after  we  had  had  our 
laugh  out. 

"Of  course  it  wouldn't,"  was  the  answer;  "only  I 
like  to  figure  it  out  in  that  way." 

"  I've  enjoyed  this  jaunt  very  much,"  declared  my 
fellow-pilgrim,  after  a  long  pause.  "  The  place  is  lovely  " 
— here  his  eye  rested  on  the  scene  before  us — "so's  the 
country  round ;  but  for  getting  near  to  Shakespeare  give 
me  the  Bankside !  " 

"  Particularly  at  night-time,"  I  suggested — "  after 
dinner,  in  fact." 


CHAPTER  IX 
WITH  GOLDSMITH  IN  GREEN  ARBOUR  COURT 

"  WHEN  you  have  half  an  hour  to  spare,  I  can  show  you 
something  interesting.  Any  time  will  suit  me." 

This  was  the  message,  written  by  Mr.  Fairfield  upon 
a  scrap  of  paper  in  my  outer  office  one  afternoon,  and 
duly  brought  into  my  sanctum. 

"  Say  I  shall  be  disengaged  in  a  few  minutes,  and 
ask  him  to  wait,"  was  my  answer. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  client  whose  woes  I  was 
then  considering  had  reached  the  end  of  his  catalogue ; 
and  when  Mr.  Fairfield  had  been  inducted  into  the  seat 
just  vacated,  I  could  see  that,  to  him  at  all  events,  the 
something  referred  to  in  the  message  was  very  interest- 
ing indeed. 

"  It's  nothing  at  all  important.  I  doubt  if  it's  worth 
your  wasting  your  time  over  it." 

He  said  this  with  a  deprecating  wave  of  the  hand ; 
but  in  his  tone  and  manner  there  was  a  suggestion  of 
triumph  and  suppressed  excitement,  which  belied  his 
words,  and  conveyed  a  promise  of  fat  things. 

"  Human  life  being  so  uncertain,  let  me  see  it  at  once," 
I  answered,  with  due  gravity.  "  The  man  who  was  sit- 
ting in  your  chair  two  minutes  ago,  lost  £200  because 
he  put  off  until  Tuesday  what  he  might  have  done  on 
Monday." 

"  I  think  you  will  last  for  a  few  days  yet,  and  there 
really  is  no  hurry."  He  laughed  as  he  said  this ;  but 
he  rose  to  his  feet  as  if  anxious  to  take  me  at  my  word. 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  myself,"  I  observed,  as  I  began 
8  113 


114    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

to  tidy  up  my  table.  "  My  anxiety  was  all  on  your  ac- 
count ;  your  intellectual  boiler  shows  signs  of  severe 
pressure." 

"  I'm  as  cool  as  a  cucumber,"  he  protested ;  and  then 
without  an  instant's  pause  he  got  to  business. — "  Do 
you  know  anything  about  Oliver  Goldsmith?  " 

A  question  so  bald  as  this  deserved  no  serious  answer. 
"  Oliver  Goldsmith  ?  "  I  repeated ;  "  yes,  the  name  seems 
familiar.  Wasn't  it  he  who  wrote  a  history  of  Eng- 
land ?  I  got  it  for  a  prize  when  I  was  a  child.  Surely 
it  can't  be  popular  on  your  side  of  the  Atlantic, — it's  in 
the  form  of  a  series  of  letters  to  a  young  nobleman. 
That,  of  course,  would  never  go  down  in  a  free  republic." 

I  am  afraid  the  delicate  flavour  of  my  irony  was  lost 
on  Mr.  Fairfield ;  for  he  had  produced  some  slips  of 
paper  from  his  pocket-book,  and  was  busy  turning  them 
over  as  I  spoke.  But  he  heard  enough  to  bring  him 
to  a  sense  of  the  enormity  of  which  he  had  been 
guilty. 

"  I  only  meant,  did  you  know  Forster's  '  Life '  ?  " 

"  I  know  it  nearly  as  well  as  Mr.  Wegg  knew  the 
'  Annual  Register '.  Do  you  remember  what  he  said 
about  that?  " 

Just  then  the  visitor's  mind  was  brimful  of  Oliver 
Goldsmith,  but  at  no  time  could  an  allusion  to  his  be- 
loved Dickens  miss  the  mark.  His  answer  was  ready, 
and  his  face  beamed  as  he  gave  it : — 

"'Know  the  Animal  Register,  sir?  For  a  trifling 
wager,  I  could  find  any  animal  in  him  blindfold.' ' 

"  If  you  know  the  '  Life  '  so  well  you  must  remember 
Green  Arbour  Court,"  he  went  on.  "  It's  an  interesting 
place ;  Goldsmith  lived  there  for  two  years." 

"  I  remember  something  about  it." 

"  Goldsmith  was  thirty  when  he  went  there  in  1758. 
He'd  had  rough  times  in  those  thirty  years.  His  ex- 
periences were  enough  to  equip  a  dozen  of  modern 
story-tellers.  Just  think  of  what  he'd  been  before  he 
came  to  England — a  sizar  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 


IN  GREEN  ARBOUR  COURT      115 

a  medical  student  at  Edinburgh  and  Ley  den,  and  a 
vagabond — a  fluting  and  disputing  vagabond — over  half 
Europe  !  And  over  here,  he'd  tried  play-acting,  physick- 
ing poor  people — I  remember  your  mentioning  that  on 
the  Bankside,  that  night  you  were  so  mellow  two  years 
ago — besides  proof-correcting  for  Sam  Richardson, 
school-mastering,  and,  worst  of  all,  hack-writing  for 
Griffiths  the  bookseller.  Man  alive !  it  was  in  Green 
Arbour  Court  that  he  wrote  the  '  Bee  '  and  the  '  Citizen 
of  the  World ' !  " 

"  Is  there  anything  of  the  place  left?  " 

"  Not  a  vestige."  Mr.  F airfield's  response  was  as 
joyous  as  if  it  had  been  an  assurance  that  not  a  brick 
of  Green  Arbour  Court  had  been  disturbed  since  Gold- 
smith left  it.  I  looked  at  him  for  an  explanation. 

"  You  come  along  with  me,"  was  all  he  said. 

"  Do  you  remember  Holborn  Hill  before  the  Viaduct 
was  made?  " 

We  had  passed  out  of  Gray's  Inn,  and  had  made  our 
way  down  Holborn  nearly  as  far  as  the  Circus,  when 
my  companion  asked  this  question. 

I  had  not  known  Holborn  in  the  days  when  a  church- 
yard lay  between  the  main  road  and  St.  Andrew's 
Church,  and  when  that  road  descended  to  Farringdon 
Street  by  a  violent  slope ;  but  I  had  heard  old  Londoners 
speak  of  the  steepness  of  the  hill  and  of  the  strain  that 
it  had  imposed  upon  horse  flesh. 

"  The  hollow  which  is  now  bridged  by  the  Viaduct  is 
the  valley  of  the  river  Fleet ;  it's  proper  name  is  the 
Holborn  Valley.  That's  what  it's  called  in  the  official 
records  of  the  improvement.  I've  hunted  them  up  a 
good  bit  just  lately." 

As  Mr.  Fairfield  spoke  he  came  to  a  dead  stop,  a  few 
paces  west  of  the  Prince  Consort's  statue. 

"  It's  more  than  thirty  years  ago  since  they  made  the 
Viaduct.  Down  to  where  we  are  standing,  Holborn 
runs  as  of  old  ;  but  beyond  " — here  he  waved  his  hand 
across  the  roadway — "  the  whole  face  of  the  country  has 


116    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

been  changed.  For  acres  and  acres  not  one  stone  was 
left  upon  another." 

"  But  surely  Ely  Place  isn't  new  ?  " 

"  No,  it  isn't  exactly  new :  the  houses  go  back  to 
about  1780.  The  chapel's  one  of  the  oldest  buildings 
in  London ;  it  was  part  of  Ely  House,  the  Bishop  of 
Ely's  palace.  John  of  Gaunt  died  in  Ely  House. 
Queen  Elizabeth  helped  Christopher  Hatton  to  filch 
a  great  slice  of  the  property  later  on — he  even  got 
the  gatehouse.  Malcolm  gives  the  best  account  of  the 
robbery  that  I  know.  Didn't  we  talk  about  it  that 
afternoon  when  we  hunted  out  the  Hatton  Garden 
police-office  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  you  said  anything  about  the  present 
Ely  Place  being  built." 

"  Your  Government  sold  what  was  left  to  one  of  its 
deputy  surveyors.  That  was  in  George  the  Third's 
time — it  was  a  nice  thing  to  be  a  Government  official  in 
those  days.  He  pulled  down  the  old  hall,  and  he  built 
the  present  houses.  A  little  before  that,  by-the-by, 
there  had  been  a  proposal  to  move  the  Fleet  Prison  to 
Ely  Place.  Fortunately  the  beast  of  a  fellow  didn't  pull 
down  the  chapel." 

"I've  been  over  that." 

"  So  have  I.  It's  an  interesting  place.  Evelyn's 
daughter  Susanna  was  married  there.  I've  a  great 
admiration  for  Evelyn ;  Disraeli  was  right  when  he 
made  Cardinal  Grandison  say  he  had  a  character  that 
approached  perfection.  Fanny  Burney's  son  was  min- 
ister at  that  chapel.  The  place  is  better  looked  after 
now  than  it  was  in  his  time.  It  gave  him  his  death — 
it  was  so  damp." 

"  I  think  I  can  remember  some  rebuilding  going  on 
at  this  end  of  Ely  Place." 

"  Very  likely.  The  making  of  Charterhouse  Street 
shore  off  six  or  seven  of  the  houses  on  each  side,  and  a 
new  house  was  put  up  at  each  corner.  But  the  rest  of 
the  place  wasn't  touched.  There's  some  rebuilding 


IN  GREEN  ARBOUR  COURT      117 

going  on  at  the  other  end,  now,  by-the-by.  The  old 
entrance  was  in  Holborn,  between  two  houses — shops,  I 
suppose.  It  was  nearly  opposite  St.  Andrew's — a  few 
paces  westward  to  be  quite  accurate.  I  was  told  the 
other  day  that  there  used  to  be  a  very  fine  pair  of  iron 
gates,  and  nobody  knew  what  became  of  them." 

"  Charterhouse  Street  is  all  quite  new,  I  suppose." 

"  Every  inch  of  it.  Before  the  valley  was  bridged, 
Holborn  ran  from  Hatton  Garden  citywards,  with 
nothing  to  break  its  continuity  except  the  side  streets. 
It's  difficult  now  to  form  any  notion  of  what  it  looked 
like." 

With  the  Circus  stretching  before  us,  and  three  great 
trunk  thoroughfares  branching  from  it,  it  was  not  easy 
to  form  any  sort  of  mental  picture  of  the  Holborn  which 
used  to  run  as  an  unbroken  main  road  between  Ely 
Place  and  St.  Andrew's  Church,  and  down  a  steep  hill 
into  Farringdon  Street. 

"Wasn't  Field  Lane  somewhere  near  here?"  I 
asked. 

Mr.  Fairfield  pointed  down  Charterhouse  Street.  "  It 
went  across  there,  a  little  below  Ely  Place,  and  ran  into 
Holborn,  a  shade  east  of  the  City  Temple,  yonder." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  '  Oliver  Twist '." 

"  Of  course,  of  course  !  Dickens  gives  a  minute  de- 
scription of  it.  He  calls  it  a  narrow  and  dismal  alley, 
the  emporium  of  petty  larceny.  In  his  time  it  was  the 
mart  for  selling  handkerchiefs  which  pickpockets  had 
stolen.  It  was  in  Field  Lane  that  Mr.  Lively  sat  at 
his  shop  door  in  a  child's  chair  and  held  converse  with 
Fagin — it  was  a  vile  place." 

"  It's  a  good  thing  it's  gone." 

Mr.  Fairfield  pursed  up  his  lips.  To  admit  that  the 
old  thieves'  quarter  which  used  to  disgrace  Holborn 
Hill  was  a  plague  spot  was  all  very  well ;  but  to  rejoice 
over  an  improvement  that  had  altered  the  face  of  part 
of  the  London  of  "  Oliver  Twist,"  was  quite  another 
matter. 


118    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  There's  something  of  Field  Lane  left,"  he  said. 
"  It's  name  has  disappeared  from  the  map,  but  you  can 
still  trace  a  scrap  of  its  course.  I  can  show  it  you  if 
you  like." 

He  made  this  offer  grudgingly,  and  I  could  see  that 
he  was  unwilling  to  be  diverted  for  even  a  few  minutes, 
from  introducing  me  to  his  great  discovery.  Under 
the  circumstances,  the  temptation  to  accept  was  irre- 
sistible. 

"  I  should  very  much  like  to  see  it." 

The  enthusiast  gave  a  longing  look  at  the  Viaduct, 
as  if  he  would  fain  move  in  that  direction,  but  he  could 
not  go  back  on  his  offer ;  so  with  hasty  strides  he  led 
me  down  the  north  side  of  Charterhouse  Street,  and  did 
not  pause  till  we  had  reached  an  opening  between  the 
houses,  a  few  paces  short  of  Farringdon  Street.  Three 
broad  flights  of  steps  led  down  to  a  narrow  street  run- 
ning northward,  with  tall  buildings  that  looked  like 
warehouses  or  factories  on  either  side. 

"That's  Field  Lane!  It  used  to  be  full  of  filthy 
shops,  festooned  with  stolen  pocket-handkerchiefs,  and 
there  was  a  barber's  shop  and  a  coffee-shop,  and  a  beer- 
shop  and  a  fried  fish-shop.  One  can  hardly  believe  it ! 
In  the  old  days  it  ran  up  to  Great  Saffron  Hill,  and 
that  ran  up  to  Little  Saffron  Hill.  Chick  Lane  ran  out 
eastward  at  the  junction  of  Field  Lane  and  Great 
Saffron  Hill ;  not  a  stone's  throw  from  where  we're 
standing — a  few  yards  to  our  right,  in  fact.  It  was  a 
very  sweet  spot.  Hogarth  knew  it ;  it  was  in  a  night- 
cellar  in  Chick  Lane  that  Tom  Idle  was  betrayed  to  the 
peace  officers.  The  cant  name  of  the  place  was  the 
Blood-bowl  House.  The  gang  that  used  it  was  called 
the  Black-Boy-Alley  gang  :  the  alley  was  a  turning  out 
of  Chick  Lane.  They  decoyed  their  victims  to  the 
place  and  murdered  them ;  it  was  the  custom  of  the 
house  to  dispose  of  the  bodies  by  dropping  them  into 
the  Fleet.  It  ran  alongside,  and  the  bodies  floated 
quietly  down  into  the  Thames.  It's  quite  creepy  to 


IN  GREEN  ARBOUR  COURT      119 

think  of  that  Bowl  House  standing  over  yonder :  just 
to  our  right-front.  This  city  was  an  awful  place  in  the 
time  of  George  II.  One  mustn't  take  what  Johnson 
says  in  his  '  London  '  too  seriously,  for  he  was  paraphras- 
ing Juvenal,  but  this  neighbourhood  really  was  a  little 
hell  upon  earth  : — 

London  !  the  needy  villain's  general  home, 
The  common  sewer  of  Paris  and  of  Rome. 

Scarce  can  our  fields — such  crowds  at  Tyburn  die — 
With  hemp  the  gallows  and  the  fleet  supply. 

Prepare  for  death,  if  here  at  night  you  roam, 
And  sign  your  will  before  you  sup  from  home." 

Mr.  F  airfield  fired  off  these  extracts  like  minute  guns, 
and  drew  a  deep  breath  as  he  surveyed  the  sunken  road- 
way and  raked  his  memory  for  further  ammunition. 
It  was  not  long  before  he  exploded  with  a  fresh 
charge : — 

"  Here  malice,  rapine,  accident  conspire, 

And  now  a  rabble  rages,  now  a  fire ; 

Their  ambush  here  relentless  ruffians  lay " 

He  recited  the  third  line  with  great  emphasis  and  a 
sweep  of  his  arm,  that  took  in  a  considerable  extent  of 
brick  and  mortar  to  the  north-east.  Then  he  stopped 
short  and  looked  into  my  face  with  twinkling  eyes. 
He  had  stumbled  upon  something  that  amused  him. 

"  Surely  you  can  finish  the  couplet?  "  said  I. 

"  I  can,  sir,  and  since  you  are  so  pressing,  I  will : — 

Their  ambush  here  relentless  ruffians  lay, 
And  here  the  fell  attorney  prowls  for  prey. " 

The  scene  of  the  ambush  was  again  indicated  by  an 
inward  sweep  of  my  friend's  right  arm ;  a  knowing  pat 
on  my  shoulder  lent  point  to  the  opening  of  the  line  that 
followed. 

"  Chick  Lane  has  disappeared  from  the  face  of  the 


120    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

earth,"  he  continued,  "  but  both  the  Saffron  Hills  re- 
main, and  they  and  that  road  below  us  all  figure  on  the 
map  as  Great  Saffron  Hill.  But  the  road  really  is  Field 
Lane.  Fagin's  house  was  over  yonder,  in  or  near  Chick 
Lane ;  Dickens  took  care  not  to  indicate  the  exact  spot. 
Do  you  remember  the  Three  Cripples  public-house  on 
Little  Saffron  Hill  ?  It  was  there  Mr.  Sykes  had  an 
altercation  with  his  dog,  and  Noah  Claypole  and  Char- 
lotte put  up  when  they  came  to  London.  Fagin  intro- 
duced himself  to  them  there." 

"  There's  something  I  want  to  show  you  here,"  said 
Mr.  Fairfield,  when  we  had  retraced  our  steps  to 
Holborn  Circus  and  were  passing  the  north  side  of  St. 
Andrew's  church.  "  You  see  that  black  tablet  near  the 
ground — just  under  the  middle  windows  !  Well,  that's 
a  carving  of  the  general  resurrection,  and  I'm  pretty 
sure  it  used  to  be  over  the  entrance  to  the  Shoe  Lane 
burial-ground.  If  I'm  right,  Chatterton's  coffin  passed 
under  that  tablet.  There's  another  carving  of  the  same 
sort  over  the  gate  of  St.  Stephen's,  Coleman  Street." 

"  Are  we  to  go  in  and  look  at  it  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Perhaps  we'd  better  press  on ;  you  can  see  it  some 
other  time.  The  bells  were  ringing  when  I  was  prowl- 
ing about  here  the  other  afternoon.  They  were  ringing 
for  a  christening.  I  suppose  you've  never  heard  them, 
though  you've  lived  within  a  stone's-throw  'for  years 
and  years." 

"  Are  they  anything  wonderful  ?  " 

"  Wonderful  or  not,  they're  very  interesting  to  me. 
All  old  London  bells  are,  and  these  have  been  ringing 
over  the  Holborn  Valley  for  nearly  four  centuries  and 
a  half.  Think  of  that,  Master  Brooke !  I  waited  to 
get  a  glimpse  of  the  baby  who  was  being  so  honoured." 

"  But  surely  St.  Andrew's  is  nothing  like  that  age ; 
I  thought  it  was  one  of  Wren's  churches." 

"So  it  is ;  but  he  didn't  pull  down  the  old  tower. 
He  only  cased  it  in  stone  and  added  a  storey  to  it. 
Those  bells  were  hung  in  fourteen-fifty  something." 


IN  GREEN  ARBOUR  COURT      121 

We  had  reached  the  Viaduct  by  this  time  and  had 
come  to  a  stop.  "  From  here  to  Ludgate  Circus,"  said 
my  guide,  as  we  leaned  on  the  parapet  and  looked  down 
upon  Farringdon  Street,  "  the  road  follows  the  course 
of  the  Fleet.  The  old  river  is  still  running,  though  we 
don't  see  it.  Stow  calls  it  Fleet  Dike — in  earlier  days 
it  was  Turnmill  Brook.  I  guess  it  takes  a  biggish  pipe 
to  hold  it,  even  now.  There  used  to  be  a  bridge — Hoi- 
born  Bridge — a  shade  north  of  where  this  viaduct 
stands.  In  Goldsmith's  time,  and  for  many  years  after- 
wards, the  road  below  us  was  Fleet  Market." 

So  saying  Mr.  Fairfield  proceeded  to  light  a  cigar ; 
and,  lapsing  into  silence,  he  puffed  at  it ;  his  eyes  fixed 
absently  in  the  direction  of  Ludgate  Hill. 

"  Is  your  discovery  far  off  ?  "  I  inquired  at  length. 

"  Oh,  no,  it's  quite  close ;  I  was  just  thinking  about 
it."  He  spoke  like  one  aroused  from  a  day-dream. 

"  Green  Arbour  Court  was  a  very  poor  place,"  he 
went  on.  "  It  lay  between  the  road  below  us  and  the 
Old  Bailey.  Forster  never  saw  it.  He  says  in  the 
'  Life '  that  the  houses  fairly  rotted  down  somewhere 
about  1830  ;  and  that  after  serving  for  a  time  as  the 
stabling  and  lofts  of  a  waggon-office,  the  place  went 
for  ever.  I've  looked  at  a  good  many  old  maps,  and 
from  these  and  from  what  I've  read  it  seems  that  in 
Goldsmith's  time  the  court  was  an  oblong  close  of  tall  old 
houses,  lying  pretty  near  due  east  and  west,  and  the 
houses  were  in  very  bad  repair.  I've  traced  them  back 
to  1677,  and  I've  no  doubt  they  were  built  just  after 
the  great  fire.  Goldsmith's  was  Number  12 ;  Forster 
refers  to  a  picture  of  it  in  the  '  European  Magazine '  for 
1803 — forty  odd  years  after  Goldsmith  left.  The  house 
stood  in  a  corner  of  the  court — the  north-west  corner  in 
fact ;  though  Sir  James  Prior,  whom  Forster  followed, 
says  otherwise.  And  under  part  of  the  basement 
storey — under  Goldsmith's  very  windows ;  for  he  had 
the  first-floor  front  room — there  was  a  tunnel  giving 
access  to  a  flight  of  steps  which  led  down  to  the 


122    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

street  behind.  Washington  Irving  hunted  the  place 
out  in  1820  or  thereabouts.  He  seems  to  have  had  a 
devil  of  a  job  to  find  it ;  I  can't  think  why.  He  gave  a 
full  description  in  his  '  Tales  of  a  Traveller '.  The  steps 
were  called  Break-neck  Steps,  and  according  to  Irving 
they  were  long  and  steep.  Prior  says  the  same.  I 
think  he  had  seen  them,  but  I  don't  believe  Forster  had. 
He  took  what  Prior  said  on  trust.  Goldsmith's  side  of 
the  court  must  have  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  ridge  over- 
looking the  Fleet  Valley — on  the  east  bank  of  the 
Fleet.  In  Forster's  time  the  name  of  the  court  still 
figured  on  the  map,  though  the  open  space  had  dis- 
appeared and  a  mere  passage  remained,  but  now  even 
that's  gone." 

Here  Mr.  Fairfield  paused  to  coax  his  cigar  back  into 
working  order. 

"  When  I  first  read  Forster  and  Irving  many  years 
ago,"  he  resumed,  "  I  took  a  deal  of  interest  in  the  place. 
It  was  from  there  Goldsmith  offered  himself  for  ex- 
amination at  Surgeons'  Hall  in  the  Old  Bailey,  when 
he  wanted  to  qualify  as  a  hospital  mate.  I  daresay  you 
remember  how  he  got  Griffiths  to  become  security  with 
a  tailor  for  a  new  suit  of  clothes,  so  that  he  might  make 
a  decent  appearance.  He  didn't  pass  the  examination, 
notwithstanding  his  fine  feathers,  and  before  long  he 
had  to  pawn  them.  He  was  in  debt  to  the  poor  couple 
who  let  him,  his  room  at  Number  12,  and  as  the  husband 
had  been  arrested  by  bailiffs,  money  had  to  be  raised 
somehow.  Then  there  was  a  pretty  to-do,  for  Griffiths 
wanted  the  clothes  back.  There  were  some  books,  too, 
that  he  wanted,  and  neither  clothes  nor  books  were 
forthcoming.  Then  he  called  Oliver  a  sharper  and  a 
villain  and  threatened  to  jail  him.  Poor  Oliver !  the 
business  was  patched  up  in  the  end ;  but  he  had  a  bad 
time  over  that  suit  of  clothes  and  those  books.  It's  a 
comfort  to  know  that  things  mended  a  bit  with  him 
during  the  two  years  he  lived  over  that  flight  of  steps. 
I  daresay  he  was  often  hungry,  and  I  don't  suppose  he 
was  ever  a  guinea  to  the  good ;  but  he  wrote  the  '  Bee ' 


and  the  '  Citizen  of  the  World '  there,  and  he  began  to 
be  recognized  as  something  better  than  a  Grub  Street 
man.  Percy  of  the  '  Keliques  '  called  on  him  at  Number 
12.  So  did  Smollett,  and  Newbery,  the  bookseller 
who  afterwards  published  '  The  Traveller '  and  '  The 
Vicar  of  Wakefield '.  Yes,  sir,  I  used  to  think  long 
before  I  crossed  the  Atlantic  for  the  first  time  that 
I'd  like  to  find  the  whereabouts  of  Green  Arbour 
Court." 

"  And  now  you've  done  it."  This  then  was  the  great 
discovery. 

Mr.  Fairfield  regarded  me  with  half-shut  eyes,  and 
he  blew  out  a  puff  or  two  of  smoke  before  replying. 

"  I've  done  rather  better  than  that ;  you  come  along 
with  me." 

So  saying  he  headed  eastward,  and  in  a  minute  or 
two  we  were  passing  the  railway  terminus.  For  an 
instant  my  guide  paused  as  if  in  doubt ;  but  after  a 
muttered  "  The  other  entrance  will  be  better,"  he  led 
me  to  the  corner  of  the  Old  Bailey.  Before  us  lay  the 
thoroughfare,  and  beyond  it  a  great  gap,  marking  the 
site  of  Newgate  prison.  The  clearance  was  new  to  me, 
and  I  halted  to  stare  at  the  unexpected  view  of  St. 
Paul's  which  it  revealed. 

"  Do  you  know  why  the  Old  Bailey  widens  out  so  at 
this  end?" 

Mr.  Fairfield  asked  this  question  as  he  scanned  the 
prospect  southward. 

I  had  never  before  observed  that  such  was  the  fact, 
but  standing  at  the  corner,  and  looking  towards  Lud- 
gate  Hill,  the  bulge.on  the  west  side  was  very  noticeable. 

"Why  is  it?" 

"  There  used  to  be  an  island  of  houses  in  what  is  now 
the  roadway.  It  extended  from  a  little  above  where  we 
are  standing  to  Dean's  Court,  which  is  a  few  yards  on 
this  side  of  Fleet  Lane.  The  frontage  on  the  east  side 
was  straight,  but  on  this  side  it  took  a  wide  curve.  The 
street  on  the  curved  side  was  called  the  Little  Old 


124     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

Bailey.  Oliver  Goldsmith's  postal  address  was  Green 
Arbour  Court,  Little  Old  Bailey." 

We  turned  sharp  round  the  corner  and  made  our  way 
along  a  passage,  having  on  one  side  the  backs  of  the 
Viaduct  houses  and  on  the  other  a  hoarding,  which 
formed  as  I  afterwards  discovered,  the  northern  bound- 
ary of  the  railway  goods-depot.  This  hoarding  ended 
at  a  brick  shed,  labelled  Parcels  Office  and  abutting 
upon  a  side  entrance  to  the  terminus. 

"  You  see  the  shed  on  our  left,"  observed  my  com- 
panion with  deep  meaning,  as  we  reached  the  threshold 
of  the  station. 

I  surveyed  it  with  a  due  appearance  of  interest  but 
made  no  comment.  There  was  nothing  in  its  very 
commonplace  appearance  to  encourage  inquiry. 

No  sooner  had  we  entered  the  terminus,  than  it 
became  evident  that  Mr.  James  C.  Fairfield  of  Chicago 
was  no  stranger  to  the  officials  of  the  Chatham  and 
South-Eastern  Railway  Company.  As  we  moved  for- 
ward, we  passed  several  porters,  and  on  the  face  of  each 
of  them  beamed  a  broad  grin  of  recognition  and  welcome. 
On  our  approaching  the  entrance  to  the  middle  platform, 
the  ticket-collector  touched  his  cap  and  swung  the 
barrier  wide  open  to  allow  us  passage.  In  our  wake 
followed  two  porters,  a  stray  guard  and  one  of  those 
oleaginous  officials  whose  duty  it  is  to  see  that  the 
wheel-boxes  are  kept  in  a  proper  state  of  efficiency. 

At  the  third  of  the  iron  pillars  which  extend  down 
the  length  of  the  platform  and  help  to  support  the  roof, 
my  friend  stopped.  He  faced  due  east,  and  drew  him- 
self up  to  his  full  height.  It  was  evident  that  he  was 
about  to  disclose  the  great  secret.  The  porters,  the  guard 
and  the  oiler  grouped  themselves  round  us  ;  mirth  and 
joyous  expectation  lit  up  the  countenances  of  all  of  them. 

There  was  a  measured  dignity  about  Mr.  Fairfield's 
opening  that  was  worthy  of  the  occasion. 

"  In  a  matter  of  this  kind,  all  that  is  necessary  is  a 
little  perseverance " 


IN  GREEN  ARBOUR  COURT      125 

"  All  it  wants,  is  a  bit  o'  brain  work  and  a  little  in- 
genooity,"  interrupted  the  oiler,  in  a  tone  of  warm  en- 
couragement. 

"Found  another,  sir?"  This  was  the  guard's 
genial  inquiry. 

"Another  what?"  The  tone  was  perhaps  a  little 
snappish. 

"  Another  goldsmith's." 

As  the  guard  said  this  he  was  shaken  with  inward 
merriment,  and  the  demeanour  of  his  three  colleagues 
gave  the  world  assurance  that  he  had  said  a  good  thing. 
Mr.  Fairfield  saw  all  this,  but  he  answered  the  question 
with  grave  serenity. 

"  No,  not  another." 

This  disclaimer  seemed  to  arouse  a  general  feeling  of 
sympathy.  The  porters  and  the  oiler  showed  it  only  in 
their  looks,  but  the  guard  was  ready  with  an  offer  of 
consolation.  , 

"  There's  something  in  the  engine-'ouse  as  you'd  like 
to  see,"  quoth  he,  as  if  addressing  a  child. 

"  Thank  you ! — I  shall  be  at  your  service  in  a  few 
minutes." 

My  friend  spoke  with  his  usual  quiet  courtesy,  but 
his  meaning  was  unmistakable.  The  bodyguard  with- 
drew beyond  the  barrier ;  but  I  could  see  that  they  and 
the  ticket  collector  were  keeping  a  vigilant  eye  on  the 
pilgrim  from  Chicago,  and  that  ever  and  anon  one  or 
another  of  the  group  made  a  remark  which  convulsed 
the  rest  with  laughter. 

"You  see  this  pillar,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield,  patting  the 
object  referred  to ;  "  and  you  see  the  next  one — the 
fourth  counting  from  the  barrier?  " 

After  I  had  stared  hard  at  the  one  and  then  at  the 
other,  I  nodded. 

"  The  site  of  Number  12  Green  Arbour  Court  occu- 
pied the  space  between  them." 

He  said  this  with  studied  calmness,  but  his  eye 
sparkled  with  the  consciousness  of  a  great  triumph. 


126     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"Yes,"  he  went  on,  after  a  moment's  silence,  "we 
are  standing  on  the  identical  site  of  that  old  house.  Not 
knowing  it's  exact  dimensions,  one  can't  locate  it  to  a 
foot  or  two;  but  I'll  take  my  oath  it  stood  between 
these  two  pillars.  The  house  looked  towards  the  Old 
Bailey,  and  I  feel  pretty  sure  that  it  stood  about  half  on 
this  platform  and  half  on  the  permanent  way  in  front 
of  us." 

Standing  midway  between  the  two  pillars,  and  fac- 
ing eastward,  he  indicated  with  four  sweeps  of  his  fore- 
finger a  square  of  some  twenty  feet. 

"  That's  the  site  according  to  my  calculations.  I 
don't  pretend  to  know  what  the  level  was  in  Goldsmith's 
time,  but  here's  the  site  under  our  very  feet.  Isn't  it 
odd  to  think,"  he  went  on,  looking  around  him  and 
showing  by  the  freedom  of  his  gestures  that  his  en- 
thusiasm was  beginning  to  boil  over — "  isn't  it  odd  to 
think  that  just  here,  there  used  to  be  that  old  house 
with  the  front  looking  upon  the  little  court,  where 
Oliver  used  to  play  his  flute  to  amuse  the  children,  and 
the  back  looking  upon  a  dirty  lane?  It  was  called 
Seacoal  Lane,  and  those  Break-neck  Steps  led  down  to 
it.  I've  read  somewhere  in  Stow,  that  there  used  to  be 
an  Inn  of  Chancery  in  Seacoal  Lane,  and  that  it  moved 
to  the  Strand,  and  set  up  there  as  New  Inn,  and  I've 
read  somewhere  else — in  Hughson,  I  think — that  Green 
Arbour  Court  was  possibly  a  relic  of  that  old  Inn — its 
green  arbour,  perhaps." 

"  Just  look  round  this  depot,"  he  went  on,  "  and  try 
to  fancy  what  the  place  was  like  in  Goldsmith's  time — 
that's  far  enough  back  for  me.  This  roof  covers  one 
half  of  the  court,  and  the  goods-depot  yonder  covers 
the  rest.  The  job's  too  big  for  a  man's  imagination — 
it  fairly  stumps  mine,  anyhow.  This  railway  has  eaten 
up  Seacoal  Lane — lock,  stock,  and  barrel,  and  piles  of 
bricks  and  mortar  besides.  It  fairly  dazes  me  to  look 
at  this  platform  and  those  metals,  and  try  to  call  up 
that  rotten  old  house  with  the  flight  of  steps  running 
through  it  down  to  Seacoal  Lane — the  steps  that  he 


IN  GREEN  ARBOUR  COURT      127 

went  up  and  down  every  day  of  his  life,  and  that 
Washington  Irving  went  up  more  than  eighty  years 
ago.  When  I  feel  dazed  like  this  over  a  vanished  bit 
of  old  London,  I  always  think  of  the  '  Arabian  Nights,' 
and  I  feel  one  ought  to  be  able  to  call  in  some  genie 
and  make  him  reconstruct  it  for  you."  Here  he  fairly 
lost  touch  with  the  work-a-day  world ;  he  gave  the  plat- 
form a  smart  tap  with  a  patent-leather  shoe,  as  if 
summoning  the  genie  to  do  his  bidding. 

"  I  would  say  to  him,  '  Show  me  the  Green  Arbour 
Court  of  1760 ! '  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Haven't  you  felt  that  want  sometimes  ?  "  he  asked, 
a  moment  later.  "  I  don't  like  to  think  I'm  madder 
than  my  fellows !  "  The  air  with  which  he  said  this 
was  positively  hangdog. 

"  Possibly  ;  but  if  I  had  that  power  of  reconstruction, 
I'm  not  certain  I  should  confine  its  exercise  to  the  re- 
surrection of  old  houses." 

"  What  would  you  resurrect  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  say  to  a  man's  own  youth  ?  " 

His  answer  was  instantaneous  and  very  decisive. 
"  No,  thank  you — not  for  me,  thank  you,  at  all  events. 
I  can  do  enough  of  that  sort  of  resurrection,  and  more 
than  enough,  as  it  is — even  in  my  waking  hours." 

It  was  odd  to  stand  on  platform  Number  3  of  Hoi- 
born  Viaduct  terminus,  with  the  noise  and  bustle  of 
the  place  in  one's  ears,  and  to  be  assured  that  just  under 
foot  lay  the  site  of  the  house  in  which  Goldsmith  spent 
two  years  of  his  short  life.  No  man  need  be  ashamed 
of  confessing  a  tenderness  for  Oliver  Goldsmith,  and 
my  friend's  discovery,  trumpery  though  it  might  be,  in- 
terested and  stirred  me  not  a  little. 

POSTSCRIPT 
THE  BELLS  OF  ST.  ANDREWS,  HOLBORN 

They  rang  their  message  of  weal  or  woe 

In  days  of  the  Romish  pride  ; 
They  caught  a  gleam  of  the  fires  below, 

When  the  Smithfield  martyrs  died. 


128  RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

They  rang  for  feast,  and  they  rang  for  fast : 

They  rang  for  the  Roses  twain, 
Ere  the  Red  Rose  scattered,  and  fell  at  last, 

In  the  mire  of  Barnet  plain. 
And  lo,  they  rang  for  a  mite  to-day, 

Who  chewed  at  hi.s  fist  the  while, 
Or  wriggled  about  with  his  arms  at  play, 
And  a  quaint,  little,  toothless  smile  ! 

In  years  to  come,  you  will  understand,  and  blush  at  the  honour  done — 
They  rang  for  Warwick  the  Kingmaker  ;  and  they  rang  for  you,  my 
son  ! 

They  rang  at  first,  over  stream  and  dell 

Where  the  nodding  alder  shook, 
And  toilers  bowed  to  the  vesper  bell, 

As  they  rowed  on  Turnmill  Brook ; 
When  Ely's  lord  had  a  fair  demesne, 
With  chapel  and  gatehouse  too, 
And  Saffron  Hill  was  an  upland  green 

Where  the  purple  saffron  grew. 
They  rang  the  obit  of  bishop  and  priest : 

They  rang  for  His  Majesty's  grace, 
When  Henry  rode  to  the  Serjeants'  feast 

In  the  hall  of  Ely  Place. 
The  same  old  bells — in  the  same  old  tower,  good  sooth,  as  the 

records  run  ! — 

They  rang  for  King  Hal  and  Queen  Katherine  ;  and  they  rang  for 
you,  my  son  ! 

Pealing  and  tolling  from  year  to  year, 

They  hailed,  the  centuries  through, 
Hero  or  sovereign,  abbot  or  peer, 

Ere  ever  they  rang  for  you — 
You,  such  an  image  to  favour  the  joke, 

Fidgetting  there  on  your  spine, 
Such  a  hot  little  shrimp  in  the  christening  cloak 

Your  grandmother  thinks  so  fine  ! 
Sucking  a  fist  that  is  pudgy  and  soft, 

Working  your  bonnet  awry, 
Deaf  as  a  post  to  the  clamour  aloft, 

Though  the  great  bells  clash  on  high  ; 

All  Holborn  astir  with  their  music  :  and  you  such  a  figure  of  fun  ! — 
They  rang  for  the  Nile  and  Trafalgar ;  and  they  rang  for  you,  my  son  ! 


CHAPTER  X 
FOLLOWING  IN  GOLDSMITH'S  FOOTSTEPS 

WHEN  we  had  passed  the  ticket-collector  we  found  our 
bodyguard  of  railway  servants  in  waiting  for  us  near 
the  bookstall.  The  guard  and  the  two  porters  at  once 
took  Mr.  Fairfield  in  tow.  The  oiler  did  not  accompany 
them ;  and  as  the  party  seemed  in  no  want  of  my  com- 
pany, I  decided  to  remain  with  him. 

"  You  seem  to  know  my  friend  pretty  well  here," 
said  I. 

"  Rather  !  "  The  answer  was  terse ;  but  the  wink 
and  the  click  of  the  tongue  which  followed  it  spoke 
volumes.  To  the  oiler  and  his  colleagues,  Mr.  Fairfield 
was  no  mere  fellow-creature ;  he  was  an  oasis  in  the 
desert  of  life,  a  something  to  be  rejoiced  over  and  to  be 
thankful  for. 

"  When  he  first  come  'ere,  we  didn't  'ardly  know 
what  to  make  of  'im.  We  thought  as  he'd  got  some 
little  game  on.  But,  Lord !  as  soon  as  he  begun  to  ask 
questions,  we  saw  'ow  it  was  with  'im." 

"  He's  been  here  more  than  once,  I  suppose?  " 

"  More  than  once !  'As  he  been  a-telling  you  as  he's 
only  been  'ere  once?  " 

The  oiler  stopped  abruptly  as  if  the  grossness  of  the 
falsehood  with  which  he  was  crediting  my  fellow-pil- 
grim took  his  breath  away.  But  before  I  could 
explain  that  no  such  statement  had  been  made,  the 
oleaginous  one  recovered  his  gift  of  speech. 

"  That's   the  best   thing  'e's   done  yet.     Ho !    Ho ! 
9  129 


130    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

Ho  !     He  was  pretty  good  last  night,  but  that  beats 
all." 

I  hesitated  to  ask  for  an  explanation,  but  before  the 
struggle  between  dignity  and  curiosity  which  began  to 
rage  in  my  bosom  had  come  to  a  head,  the  oiler  resumed 
his  parable. 

"  He  told  us  as  he  wanted  to  take  some  measurements. 
That's  easier  said  than  done  in  a  shop  like  this,  with- 
out special  orders ;  but  he  stuck  to  it.  So  we  told  'im, 
that  if  he  come  between  twelve  and  one  some  night, 
all  the  roads  'ud  be  clear.  He  said  Vd  come  last 
night.  I'm  off  dooty  as  soon  as  the  11.42  goes  out, 
but  I  was  'ere  right  enough  when  he  comes  in  at  about 
a  quarter  after  twelve.  I'd  have  stayed  for  'im,  if  it 
had  meant  six.  He  was  in  evenin'  dress,  with  a  soft 
hat  and  a  grey  overcoat.  Me  and  Jack  and  the  two 
'Arrisons  was  all  ready.  We  goes  on  to  Number  3, 
and  he  pulls  out  a  ball  of  string. — '  We're  just  opposite 
the  parcels  office,'  sez  he  to  me;  'you  take  this  and 
'old  it  against  the  outside  corner,  and  give  a  pull  when 
you're  there ! '  I  takes  the  end,  and  goes  across  to 
Number  6,  and  presently  he  feels  the  jerk  I  give  it. — 
'  Are  you  there  ?  '  he  'oilers.  Jack  had  to  stop  that,  or 
there'd  a  been  an  end  of  the  game  in  no  time — shout- 
ing here  after  midnight  ain't  included  in  our  regulations. 
And  I'm  blest," — here  the  oiler  became  convulsed — 
"  I'm  blest,  if  he  didn't  come  cuttin'  round,  to  make 
sure  as  I  got  the  right  place. — '  The  south  side  of  that 
shed  marks  the  building-line,'  sez  he ;  '  you  'old  the 
string  there,  and  I'll  see  to  the  hangle.'  Back  he  trots, 
and  I  see  'im  take  the  ball  away  from  Jack,  who  was 
a-'olding  it  for  'im,  and  I  feels  'im  fiddling  about  with 
it. — '  I'll  peg  it  down  now,'  sez  he.  He'd  forgot  they'd 
told  'im  to  speak  low.  Then  the  string  goes  taut ;  and 
the  next  minute,  he  comes  flying  back  to  me,  to  make 
sure  as  I  'adn't  shifted.  Wonderful  nimble  he  is  for  'is 
time  of  life  ! — '  You  can  let  go  now,'  sez  he  ;  '  it's  all 
right.'  I  took  'im  across  with  me  that  time,  to  save  'is 


IN  GOLDSMITH'S  FOOTSTEPS     131 

legs  ;  and  there  was  'is  penknife  stuck  in  the  platform, 
with  the  string  hitched  round  it,  and  'im  a-wipin'  his 
forehead.  He  was  fairly  chronic  last  night,  and  no 
mistake ;  but  it  wouldn't  be  right  to  shut  'im  up — would 
it  now?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  was  my  emphatic  answer. 

"  They're  much  better  left  alone  when  they're  like 
that.  My  wife's  father  he's  just  such  another,  but  it's 
religion  with  'im.  Nine  days  out  of  ten  he's  as  sensible 
as  I  am ;  though,  mind  yer,  he  may  like  to  say  grace 
rather  often  at  Sunday's  dinner,  and  a  man  don't  care 
to  be  made  sing  'ymns  when  he's  reading  the  paper  after- 
wards. The  Missus  sometimes  flies  at  'im  for  it,  woman- 
like, you  know ;  but  I  don't  'old  with  it. — '  Let  'im 
alone,'  sez  I,  '  as  long  as  he's  'appy.  Time  enough  to 
check  him  when  he  wants  to  go  out  street  preachin' ' — 
that's  what  he  gets  up  to  sometimes." 

"  Doesn't  he  preach  well?  " 

"  No  worse  than  others ;  rather  better  if  anything." 

The  oiler  said  this  with  some  shortness.  What  right 
had  I  to  suppose  that  his  wife's  progenitor  was  in  any 
way  inferior  to  other  fathers-in-law  ?  In  a  moment, 
however,  he  had  recovered  his  good  humour. 

"  But  who  wants  to  see  a  respectable  old  gentleman 
makin'  an  image  of  'imself  ?  It  ain't  often  as  things 
reaches  that  pitch ;  but  when  they  do,  there's  only  one 
way  of  managing  'im — you  must  get  'im  in  liquor." 

The  strangeness  of  the  oiler's  remedy  for  a  diseased 
brain  took  me  by  surprise.  He  saw  this,  and  his  tone 
became  painfully  apologetic. 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  ain't  nice,  but  it  can't  be  helped. 
It  runs  into  money,  for  one  thing,  and  it's  bad  for  the 
children,  if  they  see  'im  when  I  bring  'im  'ome.  But 
it  has  to  be  done." 

"  Tut,  tut,  tut !  "  said  I,  with  great  solemnity ;  "  but 
surely  my  friend  doesn't  give  any  trouble." 

"  Lord,  no  !  It's  as  good  as  a  play  to  see  'im  march 
into  the  place.  I  don't  say,  mind  yer,  as  somebody 


132    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

oughtn't  to  keep  an  eye  to  'im — like  as  you  might 
be  doing  now — but  it  wouldn't  be  right  to  shut 
'im  up.  He's  free  with  his  money,  but  I  dessay  he's 
got  plenty,  and  it's  only  right  to  let  'im  be." 

At  this  moment  the  subject  of  our  conversation  re- 
appeared, evidently  in  high  feather.  He  had  got  rid 
of  his  bodyguard. 

"  Was  the  show  a  good  one  ?  "  I  asked,  as  we  made 
our  way  out  of  the  station. 

"  It  was  a  superannuated  weighing  machine.  The 
mass  of  metal  was  considerable." 

"  Are  you  interested  in  such  things?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least ;  but  the  officials  here  were  kind 
enough  to  insist  on  my  seeing  it.  They  evidently 
think  I'm  rather  peculiar — even  a  little  cracked,  pos- 
sibly." 

"  '  Who'd  'a  thunk  it?  '"  I  ejaculated. 

Mr.  Fairfield  recognized  the  quotation  from  "  Uncle 
Remus,"  and  laughed  with  great  enjoyment. 

"  So  long  as  they  don't  obstruct  me,  I  don't  care 
what  they  think.  They're  a  good-natured,  civil,  hard- 
working set  of  men,  your  railway  servants.  It's  strange 
that  some  of  them  should  have  to  wear  such  odd  gar- 
ments as  india-rubber  collars  and  leather  ties." 

By  this  time  we  had  emerged  into  the  Old  Bailey, 
and  had  stepped  inside  the  open  entrance  of  the  goods- 
depot.  An  employe  in  uniform  bolted  out  of  a  hutch 
on  the  right,  eager  to  challenge  us ;  but  no  sooner  did 
he  espy  Mr.  Fairfield  than  his  official  severity  vanished. 
He  made  a  salute  that  was  half  military  and  half 
comic,  and  retired  into  obscurity. 

"  The  east  end  of  the  Court  came  to  about  there," 
said  the  welcome  guest,  pointing  to  the  middle  of  the 
open  space.  "  There  was  a  passage  running  into  it 
from  the  Old  Bailey,  just  on  the  other  side  of  that 
hoarding ;  and  the  building  line  on  the  north  side  fol- 
lowed the  south  face  of  that  parcels  office." 

"  This  particular  court   has  been  smashed   up   and 


IN  GOLDSMITH'S  FOOTSTEPS     133 

improved  off  the  face  of  the  earth,"  he  went  on,  "  so 
I've  had  a  bit  of  trouble  to  locate  it ;  but  comparing  an 
old  map — Kocque's  plan  of  1746,  for  instance — with 
the  last  ordnance  survey,  it's  simply  staggering  to  find 
how  exactly  the  boundaries  of  most  places  have  been 
preserved.  Now,  a  few  yards  lower  down,  there's  a 
little  place  called  Bishop's  Court,  which  in  Goldsmith's 
time  was  parallel  with  Green  Arbour  Court.  The  rail- 
way has  cut  off  the  end  of  it  and  the  steps  that  used 
to  run  down  to  Seacoal  Lane,  and  I  don't  suppose 
there's  a  brick  of  the  old  houses  left ;  but  the  building- 
line  is  exactly  as  it  was  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago. 
The  City  must  keep  a  precious  sharp  eye  on  the  front- 
agers ;  they're  never  slow  to  steal  a  bit  of  the  roadway 
if  they  get  half  a  chance." 

"  Is  there  nothing  left  of  the  old  access  from  Fleet 
Market  to  Green  Arbour  Court?  "  I  asked. 

"  We  can  get  round  to  the  west  of  the  court  in  two 
minutes,"  was  the  somewhat  evasive  answer;  "Fleet 
Lane  lies  only  a  few  yards  below  us  on  the  right,  and 
we  can  slip  through  it  into  Farringdon  Street  in  no 
time.  Nowadays  Fleet  Lane  is  the  only  channel  of 
communication  between  Fleet  Market  and  the  Old 
Bailey;  in  Goldsmith's  time,  foot  passengers  could 
make  their  way  through  Green  Arbour  Court  and 
Bishop's  Court  as  well,  but  vehicles  could  only  go  by 
way  of  Fleet  Lane.  Here  it  is  !  " 

"  It's  not  much  to  look  at,"  he  went  on,  after  we  had 
turned  the  corner,  "  but  it's  interesting  to  me.  It's  an 
old  thoroughfare,  and  it's  curious  to  remember  that  the 
slope  down  which  we're  now  sauntering  was  the  ap- 
proach to  the  Kiver  Fleet ;  and  the  roadway  winds  in 
and  out  so  unaccountably  that  I  firmly  believe  it  was 
once  the  course  of  some  tributary  streamlet." 

"  I  suppose  that  is  the  south  end  of  the  lane  which 
ran  at  the  back  of  Goldsmith's  house,"  said  I,  pointing 
to  the  words  Seacoal  Lane  written  up  at  the  entrance 
to  a  turning  on  the  left. 


134     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  Oh,  no !  That's  modern.  The  old  lane  ended  at 
Fleet  Lane — just  on  our  right.  This  one  may  have 
been  made  before  the  improvements,  as  a  continuation 
of  the  old  one.  Perhaps  the  railway  had  to  make  it. 
It  runs  in  a  wide  curve ;  and  I  believe  it  follows  the 
eastern  boundary  of  the  Fleet  Prison.  But  I'm  not 
sure;  life's  not  long  enough  to  allow  one  to  clear  up 
points  like  that." 

We  passed  through  the  railway  arch  which  spans 
Fleet  Lane ;  and  could  see  Farringdon  Street  a  little 
way  ahead  of  us.  The  Memorial  Hall  and  its  extension 
occupy  the  rest  of  the  south  side  of  the  lane,  and  oppo- 
site them  is  a  row  of  two-storeyed  houses  of  a  moderate 
antiquity.  • 

"  Those  houses  were  there  in  Mr.  Pickwick's  time, 
and  so  was  the  queer  little  close  that  has  an  entrance 
under  one  of  them,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield.  "  It's  called 
New  Court  and  it  was  built  some  time  in  the  latter  half 
of  the  eighteenth  century.  By  then  people  had  begun  to 
understand  that  a  little  light  and  air  was  not  amiss,  even 
in  a  town.  Those  Fleet  Lane  houses  have  a  small  interest 
of  their  own.  They  formed  part  of  the  Kules  of  the  Fleet ; 
perhaps  they  are  now  all  that  is  left  of  the  old  houses 
within  the  Eules.  You  know,  I  suppose,  that  debtors 
could  on  payment  of  a  fee  obtain  the  privilege  of  living 
in  the  Eules  instead  of  inside  the  jail  They  called 
them  '  prisoners  on  Rule  ' — '  Rulers  '  was  the  slang 
name.  Madeline  Bray's  father  was  a  '  Euler '  of  the 
King's  Bench;  and,  by-the-by,  Sam  Titmarsh  was  a 
'Euler'  of  the  Fleet." 

I  was  interested  in  the  old  houses  for  another  reason. 
During  our  stroll  from  the  Old  Bailey  it  had  occurred 
to  me  that  we  were  approaching  the  scene  of  the  Fleet 
marriages,  and  I  felt  pretty  sure  that  when  Lord  Hard- 
wicke's  Marriage  Act  was  passed  almost  every  house  in 
Fleet  Lane  was  an  illegal  marriage  office. 

"  How  old  should  you  say  those  houses  are  ? "  I 
asked. 


IN  GOLDSMITH'S  FOOTSTEPS     135 

"  Certainly  a  hundred  years;  probably  more." 

"  If  those  houses  are  more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years  old,  I'll  wager  that  pretty  nearly  every  one  of 
them  was  a  grog  shop  in  1753,  with  a  Fleet  parson  on 
the  premises." 

"  I'd  forgotten  about  those  marriages.  I  must  get 
Besant's  '  Chaplain  of  the  Fleet '  and  re-read  it.  That's 
th?  best  way  of  getting  a  bird's-eye  view  of  a  bygone 
stete  of  manners." 

"  It's  the  pleasantest  way,"  I  conceded. 

'  It's  my  way  anyhow.  When  I've  read  the  book 
again,  I  shall  come  back  here,  and  see  if  I  can  ferret 
out  any  of  the  places  that  Besant  mentions.  That's  my 
way  too.  I've  a  great  fondness  for  Besant ;  and  whether 
I  find  anything  or  not,  I  shall  have  the  satisfaction  of 
feeing  that  I'm  following  up  his  tracks.  He's  been 
here;  there  aren't  many  places  in  London  where  he 
hasn't  been." 

"  Do  those  buildings  cover  the  site  of  the  Fleet 
Prison?"  I  asked,  when  we  had  turned  the  corner 
and  were  standing  before  the  Memorial  Hall. 

"  Oh,  no !  The  prison  didn't  quite  reach  Fleet  Lane ; 
there  was  one  house  between,  and  at  right  angles  to 
this  house  there  was  a  row  of  houses,  running  eastward 
up  the  lane.  They  were  opposite  the  houses  we've 
just  been  looking  at,  and  were  like  them,  I  suppose. 
The  prison  front  began,  I  take  it,  just  beyond  that  second 
window  from  the  corner,  and  it  extended  a  good  bit 
farther  south  than  these  buildings  do — farther  than  the 
present  Seacoal  Lane  in  fact.  And  these  buildings 
don't  go  back  nearly  so  far  as  the  prison  did ;  the  rail- 
way runs  over  a  good  slice  of  the  old  yard.  The  Belle 
Sauvage  Inn  used  to  stand  just  behind  here.  I  was  de- 
lighted to  come  across  it  on  an  old  map." 

"  I  believe  you  would  be  delighted  to  come  across  a 
tavern  anywhere — even  on  an  old  map." 

"  We  certainly  have  investigated  a  good  many  ancient 
hostelries  together." 


136    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

The  statement  that  my  friend  made  with  so  much 
relish  was  only  too  true ;  the  public-houses  into  which 
I  had  been  dragged  against  my  will  in  the  course 
of  our  topographical  investigations  had  indeed  been 
numerous. 

"  A  reluctance  to  enter  taverns  in  the  pursuit  of  use- 
ful knowledge  is  no  credit  to  a  topographist,"  he  added, 
in  tones  of  grave  rebuke. 

"  Do  you  study  them  much  in  Chicago  ?  " 

Mr.  Fairfield  pursed  up  his  lips.  "  There  is  a  pre- 
judice on  the  subject  in  my  city.  Perhaps  it's  because 
none  of  the  taverns  are  of  much  historic  interest.  Here 
it's  quite  different ;  and  besides,  the  traditions  of  your 
profession  are  in  your  favour." 

"  Pepys  is  my  first  authority,"  he  resumed,  after 
waiting  for  a  moment  for  the  question  that  was  not 
forthcoming :  "  when  Pepys  consulted  Mr.  Walpole,  his 
attorney,  they  went  to  an  alehouse  to  talk  matters  over. 
That  shows  what  the  custom  was  in  Charles  the  Second's 
reign.  Now  we'll  go  to  George  the  Second's.  AE  emi- 
nent attorney  named  Parnell — afterwards  a  baronet — 
begged  as  a  favour  to  have  his  portrait  introduced  into 
that  drunken  Election  picture  of  Hogarth's.  He  wasn't 
ashamed  of  appearing  in  an  inn — singing  a  comic  song 
too !  Now  we'll  skip  three-quarters  of  a  century.  That 
brings  us  to  Mr.  Soloman  Pell — a  very  worthy  solicitor, 
according  to  Sir  Frank  Lockwood.  Look  what  a  good 
example  he  set !  He  did  all  his  business  in  a  bar 
parlour." 

"  But  my  clients  aren't  fond  of  bar  parlours." 

"  Of  course  not — always  excepting  the  elderly  gentle- 
man in  the  white  waistcoat.  He  seemed  pretty  much 
at  his  ease  on  that  high  stool  until  he  caught  sight  of 
you."  There  was  a  very  merry  twinkle  in  my  friend's 
eye  as  he  said  this. 

The  incident  to  which  he  referred  was  a  painful  one. 
The  gentleman  in  question  was  a  client  whom  I  had 
unexpectedly  encountered  in  an  ancient  inn  in  the 


IN  GOLDSMITH'S  FOOTSTEPS     137 

Borough  one  Saturday  afternoon.  He  was  a  Pharisee 
of  venerable  exterior,  and  among  the  godly  his  reputa- 
tion for  austerity  stood  high.  The  meeting  had  been 
very  embarrassing  on  both  sides. 

"  And  after  all  he  had  good  reason  for  being  there — " 
continued  Mr.  Fairfield,  musingly — "  a  sudden  dizziness 
such  as  he  described  to  us  must  have  been  most  alarm- 
ing— it  was  a  wonder  the  man  had  been  able  to  stagger 
up  the  courtyard.  You,  on  the  other  hand,  had  no  ex- 
cuse to  offer.  I  almost  blushed  for  you." 

I  made  no  comment ;  but  the  reminiscence  was  too 
fascinating  to  be  dropped  unfinished. 

"What  astonished  me  most,"  he  went  on,  "was 
your  friend's  rashness  in  flying  to  tobacco  as  a  restora- 
tive. Alcohol  of  course  was  quite  en  regie ;  but  a  cigar 
with  it  seemed  out  of  place.  You  may  perhaps  recol- 
lect that  he  dropped  it — he  seemed  to  do  it  almost 
furtively — and  I  restored  it  to  him.  His  young-lady 
friend  across  the  bar  thought  I'd  done  something 
humorous.  She  was  condescending  enough  to  wink  at 
me." 

I  remembered  the  whole  incident  with  perfect  clear- 
ness ;  and  I  also  remembered  how,  then  and  there,  I  had 
registered  a  vow  to  be  decoyed  into  no  more  public- 
houses. 

"  Why  were  you  so  pleased  to  find  the  Belle  Sauvage 
on  the  map  ?  "  I  asked,  as  soon  as  he  had  run  down. 

"  It  was  old  Weller's  head-quarters.  It  gave  him  his 
territorial  designation ;  he  was  known  in  the  profession 
as  Mr.  Weller  of  the  Belle  Sauvage.  When  I  discovered 
that  part  of  the  inn  used  to  abut  on  the  back  of  the 
prison,  I  felt  sure  it  was  there  that  he  excogitated  his 
design  for  smuggling  Mr.  Pickwick  through  the  gates. 
A  piano  without  works  was  to  be  introduced  into  the 
prison,  and  Mr.  Pickwick  was  to  conceal  himself  in  it 
with  his  hat  and  shoes  on.  I  feel  no  doubt  that  the 
original  conception  flashed  upon  Mr.  Weller's  brain  as 
he  sat  smoking  in  the  Belle  Sauvage  and  contemplating 


138     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

the  prison  wall.  When  he  revealed  the  plot  to  Sam 
he  gave  a  cabinet-maker  part  of  the  credit ;  but  you 
may  depend  upon  it  the  man  did  no  more  than  perfect 
the  mechanical  details — the  ingenious  apparatus  for 
giving  Mr.  Pickwick  air,  for  instance.  The  legs  were 
to  be  made  hollow,  you  may  remember." 

"  Fairneld,"  I  said,  as  we  were  making  our  way  along 
Farringdon  Street  towards  the  Viaduct,  "  this  street 
puzzles  me.  I  always  supposed  it  was  modern ;  it's  so 
wide,  that  one  could  have  sworn  it  was  a  modern 
improvement,  cut  through  some  old  neighbourhood. 
But  on  both  sides  there  are  old  houses,  and  it's  apparent 
that  the  building-line  now  is  the  same  as  when  they 
were  built.  That  house  over  the  entrance  to  Wheat- 
sheaf  Yard,  and  the  houses  on  each  side  of  it,  look  to 
me  at  least  200  years  old.  But  how  comes  a  City  street 
of  this  width  and  straightness  to  be  so  old?  " 

"  The  Great  Fire  made  a  clearance  here,  and  I  think 
the  street  was  laid  out  by  the  City  Corporation  just 
after  that.  You  must  remember  the  Fleet  ran  along  it 
then ;  and  boats  could  go  up  as  far  as  where  the  Via- 
duct stands  now.  After  the  Fire,  the  river  was  cleaned 
out  and  enlarged.  It  was  a  bit  straightened  too,  I  think, 
and  each  side  was  made  up  at  an  immense  expense. 
There  were  several  bridges — one  was  opposite  Fleet 
Lane.  Pennant  says  that  huge  wharves  were  con- 
structed all  along  the  river.  I  think  this  must  have  been 
one  of  the  greatest  improvements  that  followed  on  the 
Great  Fire.  The  street  was  renamed  the  New  Canal,  I 
believe." 

"  And  what  happened  to  it  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  failure.  The  stream  was  too  languid,  I 
suppose,  and  the  canal  got  choked  up  with  filth.  You 
remember  what  the  '  Dunciad  '  says  about  it.  It  was 
called  Fleet  Ditch  in  those  days.  The  Corporation 
arched  it  over  in  George  the  Second's  reign,  and  built 
a  market  over  it,  and  the  whole  street  was  called 
Fleet  Market  until  it  got  its  present  name.  That  was 


1 


THE  FLEET  DITCH   OF  THE  "  DUNCIAD." 

(From  Warbtirton's  "Pope,"  175'-) 
"  Here  strip,  my  children,  here  at  once  leap  in, 
Here  prove  viho  best  can  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 


IN  GOLDSMITH'S  FOOTSTEPS     139 

when  the  market  buildings  were  cleared  away,  I  sup- 
pose." 

By  this  time  we  had  almost  reached  the  Viaduct. 
At  the  corner  of  a  narrow  turning  on  our  right  Mr. 
F  airfield  stopped. 

"  This  is  Bear  Alley,"  he  said.  "  Goldsmith  must 
have  passed  up  and  down  it  times  out  of  number ;  it  was 
the  way  from  Fleet  Market  to  Green  Arbour  Court. 
That  wall  which  blocks  up  the  end  is  part  of  the  railway 
depot.  In  Goldsmith's  time  the  street  was  about  a 
quarter  longer  than  it  is  now.  It  curved  a  trifle  to  the 
left,  just  beyond  where  the  walls  stands,  and  led  into 
Seacoal  Lane.  The  flight  of  steps  lay  almost  exactly 
opposite.  Goldsmith  could  get  to  his  room  in  two 
minutes  from  the  corner  where  we're  standing — it 
was  almost  a  straight  line.  One  of  Stow's  editors 
says  that  the  ascent  to  Green  Arbour  Court  was  by  a 
great  many  steps,  or  a  pair  of  stairs,  made  through 
London  Wall.  That  was  in  1720.  A  pair  of  stairs 
meant  two  flights  of  stairs,  so  I  suppose  there  was  a 
landing  to  break  the  steepness.  But  how  on  earth  the 
City  wall  could  ever  have  been  west  of  the  court,  I  don't 
understand." 

"  Did  Washington  Irving  come  this  way  to  Gold- 
smith's house  ?  " 

"  Undoubtedly.  He  came  from  the  direction  of 
Westminster.  He  says  he  was  conducted  by  a  friend, 
who  led  him  through  a  variety  of  singular  alleys  and 
courts  and  blind  passages,  before  they  came  out  upon 
Fleet  Market.  They  traversed  this  and  turned  up  a 
narrow  street  to  the  bottom  of  a  long  steep  flight  of  stone 
steps,  called  Break-neck  Stairs.  These,  the  friend  told 
him,  led  up  to  Green  Arbour  Court.  That  friend  was  a 
man  in  buckram,  a  mere  literary  artifice ;  I'll  be  bound 
Washington  Irving  ferreted  out  the  way  for  himself. 
But  why  on  earth  did  he  make  out  that  Fleet  Market 
was  a  difficult  place  to  find  ?  It  lay  then  just  as  it  does 
now,  with  Holborn  at  one  end  and  Fleet  Street  at  the 


140     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

other.  The  difficulty  would  have  been  to  miss  it. 
What  had  he  to  do  with  alleys,  and  blind  passages, 
and  such-like  ?  " 

Mr.  Fairfield  spoke  with  some  irritation,  as  he  looked 
up  from  the  scrap  of  memorandum  in  his  hand.  Prob- 
ably it  annoyed  him  to  think  how  easy  it  was  to  find 
Green  Arbour  Court  in  1820,  and  how  Light  Washington 
Irving's  labours  had  been  as  compared  with  his  own. 

"  I  daresay  he  went  a  roundabout  way  on  purpose 
— to  make  the  story  more  picturesque,"  I  suggested. 

Mr.  Fairfield  sniffed.  "  I  don't  see  how  he  and  his 
friend  could  have  got  through  blind  passages,  anyhow. 
A  blind  passage  can't  be  open  at  both  ends." 

"  Possibly  they  were  a  little  pressed  for  time  ;  so  they 
took  a  battering-ram  with  them.  Is  the  nationality  of 
the  other  gentleman  mentioned  ?  " 

Though  Mr.  Fairfield  could  deign  no  reply  to  a  jest 
at  the  expense  of  his  country,  his  irritation  vanished, 
and  he  even  condescended  to  smile. 

"Are  there  any  old  houses  here?"  I  asked,  as  we 
stood  looking  down  Bear  Alley. 

"  None  as  old  as  Goldsmith's  time,  I  think.  In 
Newcastle  Street,  which  is  the  next  turning  on  our 
right,  there  are  several ;  but  none  here,  I'm  afraid.  But 
the  street  itself  is  interesting  in  a  way.  Goldsmith  must 
have  been  up  and  down  it  scores  and  scores  of  times." 

"  But  wasn't  his  shortest  way  out  of  the  court  through 
the  other  end,  into  the  Old  Bailey  ?  That  would  be  the 
way  of  the  booksellers  at  any  rate." 

"  I  agree ;  but  whenever  he  wanted  any  victuals 
wouldn't  he  make  for  the  Fleet  Market  ?  Surely  that 
was  the  emporium  for  the  whole  of  this  district." 

I  admitted  the  reasonableness  of  this ;  for  I  remem- 
bered that  when  Lord  Eldon  was  living  with  his  Bessy 
in  Cursitor  Street,  in  the  early  days  of  their  marriage, 
it  was  to  Fleet  Market  that  he  used  to  run  for  his  six- 
pennyworth  of  sprats.  And  this  was  only  a  few  years 
after  Goldsmith's  sojourn  in  Green  Arbour  Court. 


My  friend  was  well  pleased  to  have  his  conjecture 
thus  verified.  "It  seems  to  bring  one  near  Goldsmith 
if  one  knows  that  he  used  this  street  when  he  went 
a-marketing,"  he  exclaimed.  "  I  think  he  must  have 
been  fond  of  what  Mrs.  Tibbs  called  a  nice,  pretty  bit 
of  ox-cheek,  piping  hot.  There's  a  juiciness  about  the 
phrasing  that  seems  to  come  from  the  heart.  I  shouldn't 
be  surprised,"  he  continued,  as  he  took  a  farewell  glance 
at  the  little  street,  "  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  this 
corner  public-house  were  an  old-established  place.  It's 
more  than  probable  that  there  was  a  tavern  here  in  his 
time,  and  that  he  found  it  handy.  I  should  very  much 
like  to  come  across  some  one  who  remembered  those 
steps.  They  were  there  after  1830  I  know ;  and  it's 
quite  possible  they  were  there  till  early  in  1865.  It's 
just  occurred  to  me  that  the  people  inside  this  tavern 
may  be  able  to  tell  us  something." 

I  let  this  suggestion  pass.  The  tavern  question 
had  been  closed,  never  with  my  sanction  to  be  re- 
opened. 

"  I  can  see  an  elderly  man  behind  the  bar,"  an- 
nounced my  companion,  who  just  then  was  bending 
forward  and  craning  his  neck  in  order  to  command  a 
view  through  the  swing-door.  "  Doesn't  it  seem  al- 
most a  pity  to  lose  the  chance  of  asking  him  a  few 
questions?  I've  just  caught  his  eye." 

"  Then  you  can  easily  beckon  him  out." 

"  He  mightn't  like  that." 

"Why  bother  about  him  then?  If  the  man  won't 
put  himself  out  a  little  to  oblige  a  fellow-creature,  he 
must  be  a  sordid  wretch.  What  would  his  evidence  be 
worth  ?  " 

Mr.  Fairfield  was  not  disposed  to  debate  matters  on 
this  high  level.  "  But  you  could  wait  outside,"  was  all 
he  said. 

"That's  just  as  bad  as  going  in,"  I  protested;  "I 
can  stroll  off  and  leave  you  at  liberty,  if  you  like." 

"  Oh,  no,  I'll  drop  in  some  evening,  by  myself — if  I 


142     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

feel  inclined  to."  And  as  Mr.  Fairfield  gave  expression 
to  this  proviso,  he  laughed  aloud. 

"  If  Macaulay's  life  had  been  prolonged  for  a  few 
months  he'd  have  come  to  look  at  those  steps,"  he  ob- 
served, as  soon  as  he  had  recovered  his  wonted  gravity. 
"  He  made  a  slip  about  them  in  the  article  on  Gold- 
smith which  he  wrote  for  the  '  Encyclopaedia  Britan- 
nica,'  about  1857.  He  called  them  '  a  dizzy  ladder  of 
flagstones,'  and  he  said  they  and  Green  Arbour  Court 
had  long  disappeared.  He  died  at  the  very  end  of 
1859,  and  in  April,  1860,  some  one  wrote  to  '  Notes 
and  Queries '  to  say  that  both  the  court  and  the  steps 
were  still  in  existence.  The  man  was  wrong  as  to  the 
court — that  had  gone  some  thirty  years  before ;  I 
daresay  he  was  right  enough  as  to  the  steps." 

"  Goldsmith  moved  to  Wine  Office  Court  when  he 
left  here,"  he  remarked,  as  he  put  away  his  memo- 
randa ;  "it  was  a  rise  in  the  world  for  him.  I  know 
the  house  has  been  pulled  down,  but  we  might  just 
take  a  look  at  the  place  itself ;  it's  quite  close.  I 
wonder  if  he  went  there  by  this  way." 

"  That's  barely  possible,"  I  answered.  "  I  don't  sup- 
pose his  belongings  were  anything  serious,  but  he  must 
have  had  something  to  carry  with  him — a  few  clothes 
and  books  at  any  rate.  I  daresay  a  very  small  truck  was 
quite  sufficient ;  but  even  that  couldn't  conveniently  be 
got  down  Break-neck  Steps.  By  all  means  let  us  assume 
that  it  was  so  if  you  wish  it ;  but  to  suppose  that  Oliver 
chose  the  steps,  and  carried  one  end  of  the  truck  while 
the  proprietor  carried  the  other,  when  it  might  have 
been  comfortably  wheeled  into  the  Old  Bailey,  and 
from  there  to  Fleet  Street,  by  way  of  Fleet  Lane, 
seems  to  me  almost  fantastic." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it ;  that  truck  was  carried  down  the 
steps,"  asserted  my  friend,  with  as  much  conviction  as 
if  he  had  witnessed  the  operation.  "  It  seems  fantastic 
to  me  to  suppose  that  Oliver  Goldsmith  could  take  it 
any  other  way.  But  for  present  purposes  we'll  assume 


IN  GOLDSMITH'S  FOOTSTEPS     143 

that  he  went  by  Fleet  Lane.  We  can  pick  up  his 
tracks  at  the  Memorial  Hall,  and  follow  that  truck  to 
the  new  lodgings." 

We  made  our  way  up  Fleet  Street,  and  through 
the  narrow  tunnel  which  gives  access  to  Wine  Office 
Court. 

"  Those  three  first  houses  on  the  left  are  the  old 
ones.  Newbery's  house,  in  which  Oliver  lived  for  two 
years,  was,  I  think,  Number  6  ;  three  houses  higher  up. 
I  suppose  all  the  houses  were  in  the  same  style.  Those 
three  will  be  torn  down  before  long,  I'll  be  bound. 
Perhaps,  considering  all  things,  one  ought  to  be  thank- 
ful to  have  seen  so  much — even  at  the  eleventh  hour. 
Twenty  years  hence  there  won't  be  a  house  of  decent 
age  within  a  mile  of  the  General  Post  Office,  except 
perhaps  in  an  Inn  of  Court.  The  Inns  of  Chancery 
are  past  praying  for,  more's  the  pity.  Those  judges 
and  barristers  of  yours  who  set  the  ball  rolling  five-and- 
twenty  years  ago,  when  they  sold  Serjeants'  Inn,  de- 
served to  be  broken  on  the  wheel." 

So  spake  Mr.  Fairfield  in  great  heat.  He  had  been 
rather  prone  lately  to  break  loose  on  this  subject ;  the 
sale  of  Clifford's  Inn  had  filled  him  with  a  wrath  that 
seemed  unquenchable. 

"  Serjeants'  Inn  was  the  beginning  of  it,"  he  wailed ; 
"  and  look  what  has  followed !  New  Inn's  gone ; 
Clement's  Inn  belongs  to  a  joint-stock  company,  and  is 
an  offence  to  the  eye  ;  Barnard's  is  shut  up — all  that's 
left  of  it ;  Furnival's  has  disappeared,  and  Staple  con- 
tinues to  exist  only  at  the  mercy  of  the  Prudential  Assur- 
ance Company.  Not  that  I  complain  of  them  ;  they've 
done  well  by  it ;  and  I  only  pray  that  they  may  hang 
on  to  the  old  place.  But  as  for  Clifford's  Inn ;  I  can't  talk 
about  the  sale  of  that — its  unspeakable.  The  members 
of  that  Inn,  sir,  were  trustees  for  posterity." 

"  They  have  consented  to  part  of  the  proceeds  of  the 
sale  being  devoted  to  the  advancement  of  legal  edu- 
cation," suggested  the  present  scribe,  with  some  unction. 


144     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  For  all  I  know  Judas  may  have  meant  to  employ 
part  of  the  thirty  pieces  of  silver  in  the  same  way," 
retorted  the  stranger  within  our  gates. 

"  Let  us  have  a  peep  at  Johnson's  house  before  we 
go  away,"  he  said  a  little  later;  "we  may  find  that 
pulled  down  when  we  next  come  along  here." 

It  was  not  many  paces  to  the  top  of  Wine  Office 
Court,  and  from  there  to  Gough  Square  only  a  stone's- 
throw.  The  square  of  to-day  is  a  different  place  from 
the  shady  close  that  Johnson  knew ;  the  trees  are  all 
gone,  and  with  the  exception  of  his  house  and  the 
house  that  stands  at  right  angles  to  it  all  the  brick  and 
mortar  is  modern. 

We  stood  before  the  house,  and  read  the  tablet  placed 
there  by  the  Society  of  Arts.  It  was  satisfactory  to  see 
that  the  brickwork  showed  no  sign  of  decrepitude.  The 
door  stood  half -open ;  so  we  mounted  the  steps  and 
peeped  in.  We  retired  with  melancholy  faces.  The 
glimpse  which  we  had  obtained  of  the  staircase  and  the 
panelling  was  not  reassuring;  it  told  of  neglect  and 
decay. 

"  I  do  wish  this  house  could  be  preserved,"  said  my 
friend,  as  he  stepped  off  the  pavement  to  obtain  a  better 
view  of  the  attic  storey,  "  it's  the  last  of  Johnson's 
London  houses ;  or,  if  not  the  last,  the  only  existing  one 
whose  authenticity  is  beyond  question.  His  wife  died 
in  one  of  those  rooms ;  and  I  daresay  the  very  garret 
in  which  he  worked  with  his  assistants  when  the  Dic- 
tionary was  a-making  can  be  identified.  I  wonder 
whereabouts  Levett's  quarters  were.  It  will  be  a  dis- 
grace to  both  you  and  us  if  this  house  disappears.  The 
taverns  are  all  gone ;  I  saw  the  last  of  them — the  Essex 
Head — when  I  was  over  here  years  ago.  I  think  an 
effort  might  be  made  to  secure  this  old  house.  If  every 
reader  of  Boswell  gave  a  shilling,  the  value  would  be 
subscribed  three  times  over." 

"  If  Carlyle's  house  has  been  preserved,"  he  went  on, 
"  surely  this  house  oughtn't  to  be  sacrificed.  We  needn't 


IN  GOLDSMITH'S  FOOTSTEPS     145 

throw  stones  at  Carlyle ;  but  he  was  a  poor  wind-bag 
compared  with  Johnson.  Folks  don't  seem  to  burn 
much  incense  to  him  even  now,  and  who  can  say  that 
posterity  will  care  two  straws  about  him,  or  his  house 
either,  in  another  hundred  years  ?  " 

"  A  scheme  for  selling  that  house  and  buying  this 
one  with  the  proceeds  would  hardly  work,"  suggested  I, 
in  all  meekness. 

Mr.  Fairfield  seemed  half-disposed  to  turn  and  rend 
me,  but  he  thought  better  of  it.  When  he  spoke  again 
he  had  returned  to  his  right  mind. 

"  I'm  glad  Carlyle's  house  is  safe — it's  a  particularly 
foolish  business  to  gird  at  him  just  here,  considering 
what  he  said  about  Johnson ;  but  the  truth  is  I  get  mad 
when  I  think  of  this  place  going.  I've  had  Goldsmith 
in  my  mind  a  good  bit  lately ;  and  you  can't  get  any- 
where near  him  without  running  up  against  old  Sam. 
He  was  a  good  friend  to  Oliver  Goldsmith.  Do  you 
remember  how  he  comforted  him  after  they  hissed  the 
'  Good-natured  Man  '  ?  The  old  bear  gave  his  Goldy  a 
hug  now  and  then  ;  but  that  was  nothing.  He  was  big 
enough  to  appreciate  Goldsmith ;  that  was  the  great 
thing.  Johnson  was  too  truthful  a  man  to  say  a  word 
more  than  he  felt,  even  about  a  dead  friend ;  and  I 
don't  believe  there  was  any  one  else,  except  Burke 
perhaps,  of  whom  he  would  have  written,  as  he  wrote 
to  Langton — '  let  not  his  frailties  be  remembered ;  he 
was  a  very  great  man '." 


10 


146     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

POSTSCRIPT 
POOR  LITTLE  HOUSES  OF  CHANCERIE 

"  WITHIN  THE  LIBERTIES.  .  .  .  THE  INNER  TEMPLE,  THE  MIDDLE 
TEMPLE  .  .  .  HOUSES  OF  COURT.  CLIFFORDS  INNB  .  .  .  THAVIES 
INNE  .  .  .  FURNIVALB  INNE,  BARNARDS  INNE  .  .  .  STAPLE 
INNE  .  .  .  HOUSES  OF  CHANCERIE.  WITHOUT  THE  LIBERTIES 
— GRAVES  INNB  .  .  .  LINCOLNS  INNE  .  .  .  HOUSES  or  COURT. 
CLEMENTS  INNE,  NEW  INNE,  LYONS  INNE  ;  HOUSE  OF  CHAN- 
CERIE."— STOW. 

The  Inns  of  Court  have  a  swelling  poi-t, 
And  they  are  a  goodly  four : 

The  Temples  twin,  and  Lincoln's  Inn, 
And  Bacon's  home  of  yore. 

The  Inns  of  Court  are  of  good  report, 
Their  kitchen  fires  are  aglow, 

Their  butchers  thrive,  their  bakers  wive, 
Their  vintners  cap  them  low  : 
So  are  they  all ;  but  what  are  ye, 
Poor  little  Houses  of  Chancerie  f 

Ye  little  Inns  were  pleasant  spots, 

And  fondly  one  recalls 
How  comely  were  your  garden-plots, 

How  cozy  were  your  halls ; 
Your  students  there  for  many  a  year 

Had  held  the  mimic  court, 
And  there  your  Ancients  set  their  cheer, 

And  chuckled  o'er  the  port. 

Eight  were  ye  in  the  days  of  Stow, 

And  eight  did  ye  remain 
Till  poor  old  Thavie's  had  to  go 

In  Farmer  George's  reign. 
The  buyer  wrought  his  wicked  will ; 

He  razed  it  to  the  ground — 
John  Thavie's  house  on  Holborn  Hill, 

That  had  been  so  renowned. 

Our  king  had  passed  his  wedding-day 

Before  another  fell : 
Rat-haunted  Lyon's,  tucked  away 

Behind  the  Holy  Well. 
And  none  too  soon  the  summons  came : 

Unhallowed,  unrevered, 
A  byeword,  and  a  thing  of  shame, 

Poor  Lyon's  disappeared. 


IN  GOLDSMITH'S  FOOTSTEPS     147 

And  now  the  eight  were  only  six  : 

Sequestered  nooks  were  ye, 
With  dormer-lights  and  weathered  bricks, 

And  pleasant  greenery, 
Save  only  hapless  FurnivaTs 

Where  Peto's  hoof  had  been, 
And  garden-plots  and  mellow  walls 

Had  vanished  from  the  scene. 

But  later  years  have  hurried  on 

With  ruin  and  decay  ; 
Poor  Furnival's  is  dead  and  gone, 

And  New  is  swept  away : 
•  To  each  in  turn  the  spoiler  came, 

And  others  share  the  fall, 
For  Clement's  Inn  is  but  a  name, 

And  Barnard's  but  a  hall. 

To  Clifford's  Inn  we  yet  may  fare  ; 

A  mournful  joy,  indeed, 
For  rue  is  Clifford's  only  wear  ; 

Its  fortunes  run  to  seed. 
But  out-at-elbows  though  it  be, 

And  dank  from  end  to  end, 
'Tis  fragrant  with  a  memory 

Of  Dyer  and  his  friend. 

And  soon  those  time-worn  houses  there, 

The  hawthorns  at  the  gate, 
And  all  the  plane  trees  in  the  square 

Must  bow  them  to  their  fate. 
Alack  !  Alack  !  the  foe  is  nigh 

To  wreck  their  ancient  peace  ; 
An  evil  legend  stares  on  high — 

To  LET  ON  BUILDING  LEASE  ! 

Poor  little  Inns,  a  thriftless  race 

Your  children  proved  to  be  ! 
But  Staple  is  in  goodly  case 

Though  strangers  hold  the  fee : 
As  parcel  of  their  scrip  and  stock 

They  have  thee  at  their  call, 
But  still  the  louvre  weathercock 

Looks  down  upon  the  hall ; 

The  old  oak  gate  that  Johnson  knew 

Still  closes  on  the  Bars, 
The  high-peaked  gables,  not  a  few, 

Point  upward  to  the  stars ; 


148    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

And  yet,  though  all  is  trim  and  fair, 

And  all  is  stout  and  strong, 
A  boding  presence  hovers  there, 

And  whispers  :  "  But — how  long  t  " 

The  Inn*  of  Court  are  of  good  report, 
Their  kitchen  fires  are  aglow, 

Their  butchers  thrive,  their  bakers  wive, 
Their  vintners  cap  them  low ; 

But  ye  have  neither  food  nor  fire, 

And  never  an  ounce  of  plate  : 

Poor  old  Stow  in  the  long-ago 

Little  thought  ye  would  sink  so  low, 

That  had  such  a  good  estate  ! 

Fallen  are  ye,  and  woe  is  me, 
Poor  little  Houses  of  Chancerie  ! 


CHAPTER  XI 
WE  BEGIN  TO  RAMBLE  ABOUT  EDINBURGH 

"  WE  must  make  a  beginning,"  quoth  Mr.  Fairfield. 
He  spoke  like  one  in  heaviness,  as  he  turned  from  the 
window  and  made  towards  a  side-table  where  the  guide- 
books lay. 

For  more  than  an  hour  we  had  been  sitting  in 
silence,  gazing  from  a  window  of  our  hotel  in  Princes 
Street,  Edinburgh,  upon  the  wonderful  prospect  spread 
before  us.  It  was  a  bright  fresh  morning  in  September. 

"Whither?"  said  I.  "Anywhere  you  like,  mind; 
but  no  argument." 

Mr.  Fairfield  slowly  unfolded  a  map,  and  for  the  next 
five  minutes  I  watched  him  pore  over  it. 

"  We  must  make  a  beginning,"  he  said  again,  as  he 
looked  up;  and  there  was  a  note  of  helplessness  in 
his  voice  this  time. 

"But  where?" 

"  Holyrood,"  said  he. 

"What  is  the  way?" 

"  You  go  across  the  North  Bridge — that's  the  bridge 
round  the  corner,  where  the  post-office  is — and  take  the 
second  turning  on  the  left.  That's  the  High  Street — 
the  High  Street  of  old  Edinburgh,"  he  exclaimed  with 
growing  cheerfulness,  as  he  followed  the  route  with  a 
pencil — "  and  that — man  alive !  that  leads  into  the 
Canongate." 

My  own  map  was  unfolded  by  this  time  and  I  was 
checking  his  directions.  Of  the  manifold  associations 
of  that  old  street  I  knew  no  more  than  the  average 
tourist ;  but  vague  and  blurred  though  one's  knowledge 

149 


150    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

might  be,  there  was  something  in  the  name  that  smote 
upon  the  inner  chords  and  made  them  tremble. 

I  confess  I  have  no  very  clear  recollection  of  our 
pilgrimage  to  Holyrood  that  morning.  I  know  that, 
notwithstanding  the  plainness  of  the  route,  we  went 
astray  in  the  High  Street,  and  wandered  into  the  Cow- 
gate.  But  High  Street,  Canongate,  or  Cowgate,  what 
did  it  matter  ?  We  were  upon  enchanted  ground  all 
the  time ;  for  every  dismal  close  or  side  street  called  up 
some  slumbering  recollection  of  Scottish  history  or  the 
Waverley  novels.  On  our  later  visits,  the  poverty  and 
squalor  that  showed  themselves  on  all  hands  struck  us 
very  unpleasantly;  but  on  our  first  morning  in  old 
Edinburgh,  we  were  oblivious  of  everything  but  the 
associations  which  haunted  every  yard  of  the  way. 
Looking  back  upon  that  morning,  I  have  nothing  but 
a  vague  general  recollection  that,  speaking  to  one 
another  but  rarely,  we  mooned  about  for  hours,  well 
content  to  let  our  guide-books  go  hang,  and  to  leave 
details  for  after  consideration.  I  know,  however,  that 
we  identified  Moray  House  and  Huntly  House,  and  the 
Tolbooth,  and  that  we  sauntered  awhile  among  the 
tombs  in  the  Canongate  churchyard.  I  feel  sure,  too, 
that  we  strolled  into  White  Horse  Close  and  inspected 
the  building,  which  was  once  the  White  Horse  Inn,  and 
that  the  guide-books  enabled  us  to  identify  it  as  the 
lodging-place  of  Waverley  and  Fergus  Mclvor. 

Even  my  recollection  of  Holyrood  itself,  as  we  saw  it 
that  morning,  is  vague  and  confused.  We  dawdled 
about  the  tombs  in  the  Chapel  Royal,  and  made  our 
way  to  that  old  part  of  the  palace  to  which  all  the 
world  goes — the  rooms  in  which  Mary  and  Darnley 
lived  during  their  brief  union,  the  closet  which  saw  the 
attack  on  Bizzio,  and  the  staircase  which  saw  his  death. 
I  remember  that  while  we  were  in  the  closet,  my  friend 
quoted  a  line  from  "  Johnny  Armstrong's  last  good 
night  "— 

"  And  ran  him  through  the  fair  body." 


WE  RAMBLE  ABOUT  EDINBURGH    151 

Boswell,  he  said,  had  overheard  Johnson  mutter  this 
line  when  they  were  in  Holyrood  together. 

Before  we  made  our  second  visit  to  the  palace  we 
had  pored  over  many  guide-books ;  and,  equipped  with 
the  knowledge  thus  obtained,  we  were  able  to  take  an 
interest  in  the  mouldering  furniture  that  the  rooms 
contain.  In  the  Queen's  bedroom  my  thoughts  turned 
to  Hampton  Court,  and  Mr.  Fairfield,  whose  store  of 
desultory  reading  is  as  well-ordered  as  it  is  inexhaustible, 
told  me — reminded  me,  was  his  way  of  putting  it — of 
Macaulay's  meditations  in  the  bedroom  of  Louis  XIV 
at  Versailles. 

There  are  two  old  state  beds  in  Holyrood :  Mary 
Stuart's  is  one  of  them.  The  other  is  in  the  ante- 
chamber, and  if  the  guide-books  speak  the  truth  it  has 
been  slept  in  by  Charles  I,  and  by  the  young  Chevalier, 
and  his  victor,  William  Duke  of  Cumberland. 

On  our  second  visit,  my  companion  lingered  for  a 
long  time  in  the  closet  where  Eizzio  was  stabbed.  He 
measured  it  carefully  with  his  eye ;  and  from  the  way 
in  which  he  peered  out  of  the  window  upon  the  drainage 
works  in  operation  in  the  courtyard  just  below,  and 
craned  his  neck  to  follow  the  contour  of  the  turret  in 
which  we  stood,  I  felt  sure  he  was  endeavouring  to  take 
an  observation  of  the  room's  position,  with  reference  to 
the  general  plan  of  the  building. 

"Wasn't  it  in  1566  that  Mary  and  Darnley  lived 
here  ?  "  he  asked,  as  we  paused  on  the  threshold  of  the 
staircase,  and  turned  round  to  have  a  last  look  at  the 
state-rooms. 

"  There  or  thereabouts." 

Mr.  Fairfield  stepped  back  into  the  ante-chamber, 
and  stood  musing,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  panelling. 

"  It's  a  far  cry  from  here  to  that  dog-hole  at  Stratford 
we  went  over  two  years  ago,"  he  said  at  length.  "  It 
suddenly  occurred  to  me,  just  now,  that  Shakespeare 
was  a  baby  when  Mary  and  Darnley  were  living 
here." 


152     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  There  was  a  baby  here  too,"  I  observed.  "  James  I 
was  only  a  year  or  two  younger  than  Shakespeare." 

"  True !  And  it's  interesting  to  remember  that  the 
two  babies  met  later  on.  James  I — one  ought  to  call 
him  James  VI  here — was  an  unspeakable  person  in 
some  respects — I'm  not  referring  to  his  hatred  of  to- 
bacco— but  he  had  wit  enough  to  enjoy  Shakespeare's 
plays,  or  old  Ben  was  a  liar." 

I  looked  at  my  fellow-tourist  for  an  explanation ;  I 
had  no  notion  of  what  he  was  referring  to. 

"  Don't  you  remember  Ben  Jonson's  lines  to  the 
memory  of  his  beloved  master  William  Shakespeare  ? 
He  calls  Shakespeare  the  Swan  of  Avon,  and  wishes  he 
could  see  him  once  again  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames, 
to  make  those  nights  which  had  so  pleased  Queen 
Elizabeth  and  the  king :  I  think  I  remember  the  verse : — 

Sweet  Swan  of  Avon  !     What  a  sight  it  were 
To  see  thee  in  our  waters  yet  appear, 
And  make  those  nights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames, 
That  so  did  take  Ehza  and  our  James." 

"  That  window  in  the  second  storey  of  the  left-hand 
turret  is  the  window  of  the  supper-room,"  said  Mr. 
Fairfield  as  we  stood  in  the  courtyard  scanning  the 
front  of  the  old  wing ;  "  and  that  window  to  the  right 
of  it,  between  the  two  turrets,  is  the  window  in  the 
queen's  bedroom.  Didn't  the  size  of  that  supper-room 
surprise  you  ?  " 

"It  certainly  was  much  smaller  than  I  expected." 

"Small  isn't  the  word  for  it;  it's  microscopical. 
There's  some  mistake  about  that  story.  I  was  reading 
it  in  one  of  the  guide-books  last  night ;  and  remember- 
ing something  of  the  place,  I  felt  a  bit  staggered.  Now 
I've  seen  it  again,  I'm  certain  there's  a  mistake.  Bizzio 
was  no  more  stabbed  in  that  cupboard  than  I  was." 

"  The  story  has  passed  current  for  some  three  hundred 
and  fifty  years,"  I  hinted. 

"  That  doesn't  make  it  true.    Now  listen  !  that  guide- 


WE  RAMBLE  ABOUT  EDINBURGH    153 

book  begins  the  story  by  saying  that,  on  the  night  of 
the  murder,  six  persons  supped  in  that  little  hutch. 
Can  you,  as  a  reasonable  man,  ask  me  to  believe  that? 
Even  if  they  supped  without  a  table,  six  persons  would 
find  that  room  a  tight  fit.  And  according  to  the  story 
there  was  a  table;  for  some  one  upset  it.  Now,  sir, 
picture  to  yourself  that  room  with  a  fire  in  it — it  hap- 
pened in  February,  remember — and  six  persons  having 
supper  at  a  table,  and  at  least  one  servant  in  attendance. 
You  picture  that,  and  tell  me  whether  it's  possible  or 
impossible." 

"  It  certainly  is  a  very  small  place." 

"  Nothing  could  make  me  believe  it,"  he  asserted 
scornfully. 

"  Now  you  listen,"  said  I ;  "  that  story  is  copied 
word  for  word  from  the  'Tales  of  a  Grandfather'. 
What  do  you  say  to  that  ?  " 

Mr.  F  airfield  was  silenced  for  the  time  being.  "  I 
really  think  Scott  must  have  let  his  love  of  the  pictur- 
esque overpower  his  sense  of  proportion,"  he  said  at 
length,  "  but  as  he  must  have  seen  the  room  scores  of 
times,  I  can't  set  my  judgment  up  against  his." 

My  friend's  change  of  front  did  not  surprise  me ;  for 
he  had  lately  been  giving  proofs  of  the  reverence  in 
which  he  held  Sir  Walter  Scott.  It  was  nothing  but  the 
magic  of  the  great  Wizard  that  had  drawn  us  over  the 
Border.  A  few  weeks  earlier,  Mr.  Fairfield  had  an- 
nounced to  me  his  intention  of  visiting  Abbotsford  and 
its  neighbourhood ;  and  subject  to  his  agreeing  to  stay 
for  a  few  days  at  Edinburgh  en  route,  I  had  accepted 
his  invitation  to  go  with  him.  It  seemed  ridiculous  to 
be  so  near  the  city,  and  not  see  something  of  it.  He 
readily  met  my  wishes ;  though  I  could  see  that  in  his 
eyes  it  was  mere  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit  to  at- 
tempt such  a  task  in  a  few  days.  Had  he  been  an  en- 
tirely free  agent,  he  would  perhaps  have  pitched  his  tent 
in  Edinburgh  for  a  month  or  two ;  had  such  a  stay  not 
been  feasible,  he  would  have  avoided  the  city  altogether. 


154     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

During  the  railway  journey  from  King's  Cross,  our 
conversation  had  more  than  once  turned  on  Sir  Walter ; 
and  I  had  been  not  a  little  surprised  to  find  how 
minutely  my  friend  had  studied  the  records  of  his  life. 
The  veneration  for  the  man,  which  these  talks  revealed, 
was  no  surprise ;  for  my  own  poor  reading  had  taught 
me  that,  with  a  knowledge  of  Scott's  character,  love 
and  reverence  must  needs  go  hand  in  hand, 

It  was  past  six  o'clock  before  we  had  reached  Edin- 
burgh ;  and  by  the  time  we  had  settled  down  in  our  hotel 
and  dined,  the  evening  was  far  advanced.  When  I  went 
to  Stratford  with  Mr.  Fairfield  in  1901,  he  expressed  a 
wish  that  we  should  have  a  private  room  at  our  hotel ; 
and,  in  support  of  this  extravagance,  he  alleged  that 
the  smoking-rooms  in  provincial  hotels  were  always  so 
uncomfortable  that  reading  or  talking  in  them  was  out 
of  the  question.  I  had  no  fault  to  find  with  this  plan, 
though  I  felt  a  little  surprised  at  a  cosmopolite  like  my 
friend  putting  it  forward;  but  when  we  had  taken 
possession  of  our  exclusive  quarters,  and  his  trunk  had 
disgorged  the  travelling  library  that  it  contained,  I 
understood  why  he  had  spoken  so  evilly  of  smoking- 
rooms.  Some  place  where  that  supply  of  books  would 
be  accessible,  and  at  the  same  time  out  of  the  reach  of 
strangers,  was  almost  a  necessity.  At  Edinburgh  a 
private  room  had  been  taken  without  any  objection  on 
my  part,  and  after  dinner  to  this  sanctum  we  repaired. 
As  compared  with  the  supply  of  literature  that  my 
companion  had  piled  upon  one  of  the  tables,  his  Strat- 
ford collection  had  been  a  mere  nothing.  As  he  lay 
curled  up  in  a  big  armchair,  with  a  volume  of  Lock- 
hart's  "  Life  "  and  a  long,  black  cigar,  I  turned  over  a 
book  here  and  there  at  random.  I  chanced  to  come 
upon  a  picture  of  Scott's  house  in  Castle  Street ;  and 
knowing  that  it  could  not  be  far  off,  I  bethought  me 
that  a  stroll  to  it  would  be  no  bad  way  of  helping 
one  on  towards  bedtime.  A  glance  at  my  companion 
satisfied  me  that  I  had  better  go  alone ;  he  looked  so 
comfortable  that  it  seemed  a  sin  to  disturb  him. 


WE  RAMBLE  ABOUT  EDINBURGH    155 

It  was  perhaps  half  an  hour  after  leaving  the  hotel 
that  I  reached  Castle  Street.  The  distance  was  trifling, 
and  I  had  found  the  street  upon  my  map  without  diffi- 
culty ;  but  my  progress  along  Princes  Street  had  been 
leisurely,  and  I  had  examined  more  than  one  turning 
on  my  way.  In  the  clear  moonlight  the  statue  of 
Chalmers  stood  out  inky  black ;  and,  just  beyond  it, 
the  stone  bow-fronted  house  in  which  Scott  lived  for  so 
many  years  was  easily  found. 

After  mounting  the  steps,  to  make  sure  by  a  glance 
at  the  number  that  I  had  made  no  mistake,  I  was 
about  to  descend  and  examine  the  front  when,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  road,  I  caught  sight  of  a  figure  that 
seemed  familiar  to  me.  A  moment's  inspection  put 
the  matter  beyond  all  doubt ;  it  was  the  tall  spare  form 
of  Mr.  James  C.  Fairfield  that  was  leaning  against  the 
railing  opposite.  There  was  nothing  surprising  in  his 
being  there ;  but  the  fact  that  he  had  not  seen  me  was 
a  little  odd.  In  one  hand  he  held  a  scrap  of  paper ; 
the  moon  gleamed  on  his  pince-nez,  and  was  bright 
enough  to  show  that  he  was  gnawing  the  pencil  which 
he  held  in  the  other  hand,  and  that  though  he  was 
looking  towards  the  house,  his  gaze  was  directed  sky- 
ward. 

I  strolled  across  the  road ;  but  so  deep  was  his  ab- 
straction that  I  was  within  a  yard  or  two  of  him  before 
he  looked  up  and  recognized  me.  And  then  he  started 
like  a  guilty  thing,  and,  quick  as  lightning,  he  shuffled 
the  scrap  of  paper  into  his  pocket. 

"  Making  a  few  more  notes?  "  I  asked  cheerfully. 

But  alas  !  when  I  said  this  my  words  belied  my 
thoughts  ;  for  I  knew  full  well  that  no  mere  note-making 
had  been  his  occupation  ;  and  it  was  nothing  to  the 
point  that  he  caught  at  my  suggestion  and  mumbled  out 
something  that  might  have  been  yes.  Had  there  been 
a  shadow  of  doubt  in  my  mind  he  should  have  had  the 
benefit  of  it,  for  I  liked  the  man  and  respected  him. 
But  the  cruel  logic  of  the  facts  left  no  room  for  reason- 


156     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

able  doubt — I  had  disturbed  him  in  the  act  of  composing 
poetry. 

We  stood  side  by  side,  gazing  upon  the  front  of  the 
house,  and  neither  thought  it  necessary  to  explain  how 
he  came  there. 

"  There's  no  more  interesting  house  in  the  whole 
world,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield,  breaking  the  silence,  "  and 
it's  satisfactory  to  find  it  looking  strong  enough  to  last 
a  thousand  years.  Scott  lived  here  for  a  very  long  time. 
It  had  sheltered  him,  he  said,  from  the  prime  of  life  to 
its  decline.  The  crash  came  in  January,  1826  ;  he  left 
here  in  March  and  the  place  was  sold  a  few  months 
later.  It  was  a  bitter  pang  to  him  when  the  house 
went ;  it  was  almost  as  dear  to  him  as  Abbotsford  it- 
self. There  is  an  inscription  on  it  somewhere,  giving 
the  dates  when  he  came  and  went." 

We  moved  across  the  road,  and  were  able  to  make 
out  the  substance  of  the  lines,  cut  in  the  stonework  of 
the  front. 

"  He  was  twenty-six  when  he  came  here,  and  fifty- 
four  when  he  left,"  said  my  fellow-tourist ;  "  just  think 
what  a  slice  of  his  life  that  time  represents  !  Of  course, 
he  wasn't  always  here,  but  he  had  to  be  in  Edinburgh 
when  the  courts  were  sitting,  and  we  may  take  it  that 
he  was  here  for  more  than  six  months  out  of  every 
twelve.  That  front  room,  on  a  level  with  the  top  of 
the  steps,  was  what  Lockhart  calls  the  dining-parlour. 
The  study — Scott's  workshop — was  just  behind,  and 
from  it  a  Venetian  window  opened  on  the  little  patch 
of  turf  where  he  buried  Camp,  the  old  bull-terrier,  one 
moonlight  night.  Mrs.  Lockhart  told  her  husband  that 
her  father  wore  the  saddest  expression  of  face  she  had 
ever  seen  in  him,  as  he  smoothed  the  turf  down  over 
the  grave,  and  that  on  the  plea  of  the  death  of  a  dear 
old  friend,  he  broke  a  dinner  engagement  for  that  day. 
And  the  prettiest  part  of  the  story  comes  at  the  end — the 
host  was  not  at  all  surprised  when  he  learned  who  the 
dear  old  friend  was.  Camp  is  shown  in  that  ugly  por- 


WE  RAMBLE  ABOUT  EDINBURGH    157 

trait  that  Eaeburn  painted  of  Scott — the  portrait  of  him 
sitting  down,  in  Hessian  boots.  How  fond  he  was  of 
dogs  !  How  fond  Dickens  was,  too !  " 

"  So  are  most  ordinary  persons,"  I  suggested. 

"  True,  but  not  in  the  way  Scott  was.  He  treated 
them  like  fellow-creatures.  When  I  was  reading 
Forster's  '  Goldsmith  '  the  other  day,  I  came  on  a  say- 
ing of  Horace  Walpole's  about  dogs,  that  made  me 
think  of  Scott.  Just  at  the  time  there  was  a  hydro- 
phobia panic  raging,  and  dogs  were  being  slaughtered 
wholesale.  '  The  dear,  honest,  good-natured,  sensible 
creatures.  Christ,  how  can  anybody  hurt  them  ?  '  was 
what^Walpole  said.  When  I  read  that,  my  first  thought 
was,  how  it  must  have  gone  to  Scott's  heart — I'll  be 
bound  he  knew  of  it  and  quoted  it  sometimes." 

"  I've  just  materialized  a  floating  something  connected 
with  that  front  door;  it's  been  swaying  about  in  my 
mind  for  the  last  few  minutes,"  resumed  Mr.  Fairfield. 
"  One  night  the  Ettrick  Shepherd  left  this  house  in  a 
state  of  inebriation,  and  Scott  at  parting  gave  him  sage 
counsel  to  avoid  the  dangers  of  the  streets.  It's  not 
very  difficult  to  picture  Scott  holding  that  door  open, 
and  watching  James  Hogg  make  a  cautious  passage 
down  those  steps.  I'm  afraid  Scott  had  a  smile  on  his 
face ;  our  grandfathers  were  more  alive  to  the  comic 
aspects  of  drunkenness  than  we  are." 

"  Could  any  one  come  across  Hogg,  drunk  or  sober, 
without  smiling?"  I  asked. 

"  He  certainly  was  a  queer  fish  ;  the  more  one  reads 
about  him  the  odder  he  seems.  Lockhart  is  not  at  all 
hard  on  him.  His  way  of  summing  him  up  is  deliciously 
ambiguous — '  In  pace  requiescat,'  says  he.  '  There  will 
never  be  such  an  Ettrick  Shepherd  again.' ' 

"  Isn't  there  some  story,  that  when  Hogg  was  intro- 
duced to  Mrs.  Scott  she  was  indisposed  ;  and  because 
she  was  lying  on  a  sofa,  Hogg  thought  good  manners 
required  him  to  sprawl  on  another?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  that's  the  story ;  and  it  goes  on  to  say  that, 


158     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

as  Scott  addressed  her  as  Charlotte,  Hogg,  as  the  even- 
ing wore  on,  did  the  same.  I'm  afraid  his  demeanour 
in  polite  society  was  generally  a  trifle  swinish.  Some- 
where in  the  '  Journal '  Scott  refers  to  him  as  '  the 
honest  grunter'.  Lockhart  tells  a  very  funny  story 
about  him.  When  Hogg  and  Scott  were  at  strained 
relationships — the  Shepherd  was,  of  course,  to  blame — 
he  wrote  to  Scott ;  and  he  relieved  his  wounded  dignity 
by  varying  the  usual  formulas  of  epistolary  communica- 
tion— that's  Lockhart's  phrase,  I  think.  He  began  the 
letter  '  Damned  sir,'  and  wound  up  '  Believe  me,  sir, 
yours  with  disgust '." 

"  Dickens  breakfasted  in  that  house  in  1841 ;  I  should 
dearly  like  to  go  over  it,"  said  my  friend  wistfully,  as  he 
lit  a  cigar. 

"  Perhaps  we  can  manage  that.  I  see  from  the  brass- 
plate,  a  firm  of  Writers  to  the  Signet  have  it  now. 
They  wouldn't  refuse  a  professional  brother  from  across 
the  Tweed  the  small  courtesy  of  going  over  their  offices, 
if  they  were  approached  in  the  right  way.  I  can  write 
them  a  note  to-morrow." 

Mr.  Fairfield  was  sorely  tempted,  but  his  strong 
objection  to  force  himself  upon  strangers  held  him  back. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  there  must  be  plenty  of  tourists  who 
present  themselves  with  that  request.  I'd  rather  not 
march  through  Coventry  with  that  gang." 

"  You  might  call  at  the  office  in  the  character  of  a 
client.  Would  there  be  any  harm  in  your  asking  them 
to  make  your  will,  for  instance  ?  " 

With  owlish  gravity  he  pondered  over  this  suggestion, 
and  with  owlish  gravity  he  answered  it. 

"  The  fact  of  my  being  an  American  citizen  might 
raise  a  difficulty ;  but  I  can  see  an  easy  way  of  making 
your  excellent  plan  feasible — you  can  go  and  have  your 
will  made,  and  I'll  go  with  you,  to  see  fair." 

"  That's  a  very  happy  thought,"  I  exclaimed  with 
enthusiasm. 

"  Possibly,"  he  continued,  "  a  member  of  that  firm 


WE  RAMBLE  ABOUT  EDINBURGH    159 

might  think  it  a  little  odd  if  an  English  solicitor  stepped 
up  out  of  the  street  and  asked  to  have  his  will  made, 
unless  some  sort  of  an  explanation  were  forthcoming. 
You  must  prepare  yourself  for  that ;  '  a  bit  o'  brain  work 
and  a  little  ingenooity '  will  do  wonders.  It  will  give 
me  great  pleasure  to  hear  you  produce  that  explanation. 
It  will  give  me  even  greater  pleasure  to  see  you  pay  the 
little  bill  of  your  professional  brother  on  this  side  of  the 
Tweed." 

"  I'll  think  it  over,"  said  I. 

"  I'm  glad  that  house  is  in  legal  hands,"  observed  Mr. 
Fairfield,  as  we  strolled  homeward.  "  I  don't  suppose  any 
good  Scot  would  do  it  violence,  but  it's  doubly  safe  with 
the  lawyers.  They  must  feel  a  special  pride  in  him ; 
he  was  such  a  child  of  the  law  : — 

the  destined  heir 
In  his  soft  cradle,  to  his  father's  chair. 

He  was  in  the  law,  and  of  the  law,  all  his  life.  Each 
branch  has  good  cause  to  be  proud  of  him — the  bar,  be- 
cause it  was  his  calling,  and  the  other  branch  because 
of  the  picture  he  drew  of  his  father,  not  only  in  '  Red- 
gauntlet,'  but  in  the  scrap  of  autobiography  which  Lock- 
hart  sets  out." 

"  That  quotation  was  a  shade  wide  of  the  mark,"  he 
went  on;  "  for,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  his  father  designed 
him  for  the  bar,  rather  than  his  own  branch  of  the  law. 
But  Scott  served  out  an  apprenticeship  in  the  old  man's 
office,  and  that  was  what  I  was  thinking  of." 


CHAPTEK  XII 
MR.  FAIRFIELD  AND  "BONNIE  DUNDEE" 

ON  our  second  visit  to  Holyrood,  we  ferreted  out  the 
quaint  little  house  over  which,  according  to  tradition, 
some  of  Eizzio's  assassins  made  their  escape  from  the 
palace.  It  is  called  Queen  Mary's  bath,  and  the  guide- 
books say  there  is  a  spring  of  clear  water  within  it. 
For  some  reason  or  other,  the  bath-house  is  railed  off 
from  the  approach  of  the  vulgar  ;  to  what  use  it  is  put, 
or  by  whom  it  is  tenanted,  the  present  writer  knoweth 
not. 

Not  far  from  the  bath-house,  the  frontier  of  the 
sanctuary,  which,  until  quite  recent  times,  the  liberty 
of  the  palace  afforded  to  debtors,  is,  unless  the  guide- 
books speak  falsely,  marked  out  by  a  line  of  stones. 
Leaning  against  a  wall  and  smoking  a  pipe,  I  watched 
my  friend's  efforts  to  find  this  boundary. 

His  movements  in  the  roadway,  as  almost  on  his 
knees  he  scrutinized  the  surface  through  his  pince-nez, 
and  at  the  same  time  kept  an  eye  upon  approaching 
vehicles ;  and  his  despair  when  he  could  gain  no  illu- 
mination from  the  loafers  whom  his  proceedings  had 
attracted,  and  who  showed  by  their  answers,  couched 
in  a  Doric  hardly  intelligible,  that  they  had  no  know- 
ledge of  the  thing  he  sought  for,  gave  my  tobacco  a 
flavour  and  an  incense  not  its  own. 

"  If  only  I  could  see  a  policeman !  "  he  wailed,  when, 
worn  out  by  his  exertions,  he  had  given  up  the  search 
as  a  bad  job,  and  had  returned  to  my  side. 

His  faith  in  the  Edinburgh  police-force  was  un- 
160 


"  BONNIE  DUNDEE  "  161 

bounded.  Whenever  we  were  in  any  topographical 
difficulty,  it  was  his  practice  to  make  a  bee-line  for  the 
nearest  constable  and  submit  the  problem  for  his  con- 
sideration. Nine  times  out  of  ten  the  application  was 
successful,  and  our  feet  were  set  in  the  right  way.  The 
police  of  Edinburgh  are  a  fine  body  of  men  physically 
speaking,  and  their  dealings  with  my  enthusiastic  com- 
panion showed  them  to  be  as  intelligent  as  they  were 
stalwart. 

Only  in  the  matter  of  their  attitude  towards  drunken- 
ness did  he  find  ground  of  complaint  against  them. 

"  This  is  nothing  less  than  a  disgrace  to  civilization," 
he  asserted  one  Saturday  afternoon,  as  we  stood  in  the 
Canongate,  and  made  way  for  workman  after  workman 
to  lurch  past  us  on  unsteady  legs. 

"  Why  on  earth  are  these  beasts  allowed  to  get  in 
the  way  of  decent  passengers  ?  "  he  demanded,  after  a 
reveller  had  jerked  him  into  the  roadway. 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  the  police?  " 

Mr.  Fairfield's  abhorrence  of  drunkenness  is  strong 
and  fervent,  but  he  shrank  from  this. 

"  They  must  be  fond  of  a  drappie  themselves,"  he 
grumbled,  "  unless  " — and  here  the  grave  zest  which 
always  heralded  a  quotation  proclaimed  itself  in  his 
tone — "  unless  they're  like  the  deacon — 'rest  and  bless 
him  ! ' — they  lo'e  their  friends  and  ken  we  a'  have  our 
frailties." 

He  made  this  plunge  into  the  vernacular  with  a  fine 
show  of  confidence,  but  I  noticed  that  he  took  care  to 
reach  no  other  ear  than  my  own. 

"  They  act  under  orders,"  said  I. 

"  Of  course  !  of  course  !  "  he  admitted,  readily  enough. 

"  But  this,  really,  is  too  bad,"  he  blazed  out,  a  little 
later.  By  this  time  we  had  reached  the  North  Bridge  ; 
and  a  few  paces  in  front  of  us,  an  honest  toiler,  weary 
of  his  efforts  to  stagger  homeward,  had  sunk  upon  the 
pavement  and  resigned  himself  to  slumber.  He  was  an 
artisan  of  lofty  stature,  and  as  he  lay  due  east  and  west, 
11 


162     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

with  his  feet  in  the  gutter,  the  disturbance  to  traffic 
was  considerable. 

But  even  as  Mr.  Fairfield  spoke,  a  policeman  strolled 
up  to  the  prostrate  one,  and  laid  a  gentle  hand  upon 
his  arm.  For  an  instant  a  lack-lustre  eye  rested  on  the 
constable ;  and  the  next  moment  the  man's  inebriation 
had  vanished  and  he  was  on  his  legs,  speeding  south- 
ward. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  ejaculated  my  companion,  "  when 
they  do  move  it  means  business." 

After  our  first  morning  in  the  Canongate,  all  Mr. 
Fairfield's  longing  to  get  to  Tweedside  had  disappeared. 
Day  after  day  went  by,  but  the  fascination  of  the  grey 
city  held  us  captives  within  her  bounds.  On  the  even- 
ing of  our  arrival  the  view  of  Princes  Street,  with  the 
Calton  and  Arthur's  Seat  on  the  one  hand,  and  the 
Castle  Eock  on  the  other,  and  between  them  the 
wooded  slopes  that  climbed  up  to  the  Old  Town,  had 
made  us  stare  and  gasp.  The  majesty  of  the  prospect 
never  waned ;  but  what  was  even  more  wonderful  was 
to  stroll  out  of  our  hotel  before  breakfast,  and  to  find, 
as  soon  as  we  had  turned  into  George  Street,  the  sun 
glittering  on  the  distant  sea  and  lighting  up  the  long 
landscape  that  stretched  beyond  it.  The  views  from 
the  Castle  and  Arthur's  Seat  were  more  varied  and 
much  more  spacious,  but  they  never  moved  us  in  the 
same  degree.  Even  they  lay  close  at  hand ;  but  the 
view  from  George  Street  was  on  our  very  threshold. 
In  its  proximity  to  the  heart  of  a  great  city  lay  its 
unique  and  never-failing  charm. 

The  more  we  saw  of  the  tourists  whom  we  came 
across,  during  our  rambles  in  the  streets,  or  at  meal- 
times in  the  hotel,  the  more  we  scorned  and  pitied 
them.  To  tear  about  Edinburgh,  guide-book  in  hand, 
for  a  day  or  two,  and  then  depart  breathless  to  do 
the  like  elsewhere,  seemed  such  very  poor  sport. 
But  we  ourselves  did  not  altogether  disdain  the  injunc- 
tions of  the  guide-books,  and  decently  and  in  order  we 


"  BONNIE  DUNDEE  "  163 

inspected  most  of  the  lions  of  the  metropolis.  Thanks 
to  our  bicycles,  it  was  easy  work  to  extend  our  rambles 
to  Leith,  Musselburgh  and  Portobello.  Having  seen 
them,  we  were  cheered  by  a  consciousness  of  duty  done  ; 
but  we  felt  no  desire  to  pay  any  of  them  a  second 
visit. 

It  was  our  misfortune  rather  than  our  fault  that  we 
did  not  see  Hawthornden.  We  made  a  start  in  that 
direction  one  morning ;  but  the  wind  was  dead  against 
us,  and  it  was  so  strong  that  bicycling  was  out  of  the 
question.  We  took  the  machines  home,  and  made  a 
fresh  start  on  foot ;  but  by  the  time  we  reached  Eoslin, 
we  were  so  tired  that  even  Mr.  F  airfield  admitted  that 
any  more  walking  that  day  would  be  too  much  of  a 
good  thing. 

"  I  particularly  wanted  to  see  Hawthornden,"  he 
grumbled,  as,  after  lunching  and  going  over  the  chapel, 
we  sat  smoking  on  a  tree  that  overhung  the  Esk.  "  I 
don't  care  so  much  about  Drummond  or  Ben  Jonson, 
but  I've  got  a  note  that  James  Payn  took  Dickens 
there,  and  that  Dickens  was  very  humorous  over  the 
dungeons.  I  wanted  to  see  those  dungeons." 

"  You  wouldn't  care  for  the  place  if  you  saw  it,"  said 
I  philosophically  ;  "  such  is  the  way  of  the  world.  If 
we  hadn't  come  to  Boslin,  you'd  be  burning  to  see  the 
chapel  As  it  is,  you  have  seen  it  and  you've  been 
bored  by  it." 

"  It  was  rather  a  poor  shillingsworth,"  he  admitted. 
"  The  detail  of  that  carved  work  was  a  weariness  to  the 
eye,  and  that  old  story  about  the  apprentice  and  his 
master  was  a  weariness  to  the  flesh." 

Roslin  Chapel  needs  no  man's  good  word.  We  spoke 
of  it  as  we  found  it,  but  the  tourists  in  whose  company 
we  had  gone  over  it  had  been  loud  in  its  praise ;  perhaps 
we  were  a  little  peevish  that  afternoon. 

We  jolted  back  to  Edinburgh  in  a  brake.  The  phy- 
sical discomforts  of  that  journey  are  fresh  in  my  mind, 
but  I  was  more  fortunate  than  Mr.  Fairfield.  I  shared 


164    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

a  seat  with  a  gentleman  who  did  nothing  worse  than 
crack  nuts  with  his  teeth ;  my  poor  friend  sat  by  an 
enthusiastic  wine  merchant,  hailing  from  Newcastle, 
who  poured  into  his  ear  a  long  description  of  the  Forth 
Bridge,  and  enjoined  him,  not  once  but  over  and  over 
again,  to  fly  and  examine  it  forthwith. 

But  though  we  did  not  ignore  the  lions  of  new  Edin- 
burgh and  the  country  round  about,  Auld  Keekie 
was  our  load-stone  rock.  It  was  in  or  about  her  mile  of 
roadway,  extending  from  Holyrood  to  the  Castle,  that 
most  of  our  time  was  spent.  There  were  not  many  of 
the  wynds  and  closes  of  the  Old  Town  that  we  did  not 
explore.  It  was  our  custom  to  cast  ourselves  adrift  in 
the  High  Street  or  the  Canongate,  and  ramble  about 
until  we  grew  weary ;  and  on  the  whole  I  do  not  think 
my  enthusiasm  fell  far  short  of  my  companion's.  The 
man  who,  without  some  stirring  of  his  imagination,  can 
look  upon  the  balcony  of  Moray  House,  from  which, 
according  to  tradition,  the  Argyles  jeered  at  Montrose, 
must  be  a  dull  creature ;  and  moving  along  those 
historic  ways,  it  calls  for  no  great  exercise  of  the  fancy, 
to  figure  to  one's  inward  eye  the  progress  of  the  Great 
Marquess  from  the  Watergate  to  the  Tolbooth  Prison,  or 
to  follow  up  the  High  Street  the  shadows  of  Dr.  John- 
son and  Boswell,  as,  on  the  night  of  Johnson's  arrival, 
they  walked  from  the  White  Horse  in  Boyd's  Close  to 
James  Court,  arm  in  arm. 

"  Some  English  travellers  would  have  thought  this 
place  a  bit  confined,"  I  said,  as  we  stood  in  that  court 
one  afternoon,  "  but  I  don't  suppose  Johnson  saw  any- 
thing amiss  with  Boswell's  quarters." 

"  Even  if  he  did,  he  was  hardly  in  a  position  to  throw 
stones,"  was  my  friend's  instant  rejoinder. 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"  They  were  at  least  as  good  as  his  own.  He  was 
living  in  Johnson's  Court,  then — don't  you  remember 
how  he  used  to  call  himself  Johnson  of  that  ilk  ?  Bozzy 
could  have  given  him  a  Koland  for  his  Oliver  if  he  had 


"  BONNIE  DUNDEE  "  165 

found  fault  with  this  court.  And  just  think  what  a 
view  there  was  from  the  back  windows !  " 

My  friend  and  I  came  to  Edinburgh  in  a  state  of 
primitive  ignorance  as  regards  the  topography  of  the 
city.  The  library  that  he  brought  with  him  was  not  of 
much  assistance  so  far  as  details  were  concerned ;  for 
it  related  chiefly  to  Sir  Walter  and  the  novels,  and  such 
information  as  our  guide-books  contained  was  soon  ex- 
hausted. We  were,  however,  so  fortunate  as  to  come 
across  Mr.  John  Geddie's  "  Eomantic  Edinburgh,"  and 
it  is  only  just  to  acknowledge  the  debt  of  gratitude  that 
we  owe  to  it.  Evening  after  evening,  Mr.  Fairfield 
would  lie  in  his  big  chair  poring  over  the  pages,  pencil 
in  hand ;  and  when  at  length  he  laid  the  book  down 
with  a  weary  hand,  it  was  always  with  a  benison  upon 
the  writer ;  and  his  next  move  was  to  draw  up  to  the 
table,  and  make  notes  for  future  use  out  of  doors. 

As  a  rule,  my  friend  was  too  considerate  to  disturb 
my  studies  or  meditations  by  bursting  forth  with  scraps 
from  the  book  which  he  happened  to  be  reading ;  but 
now  and  again  "  Romantic  Edinburgh  "  stirred  him  to 
a  degree  that  demanded  the  immediate  sympathy  of  a 
fellow-creature. 

"  Just  listen  to  this  about  Blackfriars  Street,  which 
used  to  be  called  Friars  Wynd,"  I  remember  his  exclaim- 
ing one  evening,  as  a  prelude  to  his  reading  the  follow- 
ing passage : — 

"  But  the  most  dramatic  and  sinister  scene  in  the  history  of  this 
picturesque  alley — which  has  been  improved  into  a  commonplace 
modern  street — was  when,  late  one  evening  in  February,  1567, 
Mary  Stuart  passed  up  it  with  blazing  torches  and  archer  guard, 
after  visiting  her  sick  husband  at  Kirk  of  Field,  while  Hepburn, 
Earl  of  Bothwell,  and  his  emissaries,  carrying  the  gunpowder, 
slipped  past  by  the  next  alley  of  Todrick's  Close." 

"  That  was  the  night  Darnley  was  blown  up,"  he 
went  on;  "we  must  find  Blackfriars  Street  and  Tod- 
rick's  Close  to-morrow;  they  can't  be  far  from  the 
palace.  I  wish  we  knew  more  about  those  streets  near 


166    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

the  gates.  Whenever  we  go  there,  I'm  always  reminded 
of  that  capital  bit  of  Stanley  Weyman's  about  the  back 
streets  near  the  old  French  court— it's  in  '  The  Man  in 
Black,'  I  think." 

It  was  upon  the  second  day  of  our  sojourn  in  Edin- 
burgh that  we  came  upon  the  Grassmarket.  Chance 
led  our  footsteps  to  it  after  dinner.  We  had  wandered 
up  Princes  Street  as  far  as  the  Caledonian  terminus  ; 
and,  without  any  definite  goal  in  view,  we  had  turned 
down  the  Lothian  Koad,  and  had  thence  drifted  east- 
ward. We  were  both  smoking,  and  for  some  time  we 
strolled  along  without  saying  anything.  After  nightfall 
Mr.  F airfield  is  prone  to  saunter  along,  with  his  hands 
clasped  behind  him,  and  his  unbuttoned  grey  overcoat 
floating  abroad  on  either  side;  the  erectness  which 
marks  his  carriage  during  the  daytime  disappears,  and 
something  not  far  removed  from  a  slouch  takes  its  place. 
He  was  moving  along  in  this  wise  that  evening,  when 
his  eye  caught  the  name  of  a  street  we  were  just  passing 
on  our  left.  In  an  instant  he  had  straightened  himself 
up;  and  rigid  and  alert,  he  was  staring  at  the  name 
through  his  pince-nez. 

"  West  Port !  "  he  ejaculated.  "  This  is  indeed  a 
discovery." 

I  looked  at  him  without  comprehension  ;  and  to  my 
surprise  he  burst  forth  into  "  Bonnie  Dundee  "  : — 

"  Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my  can, 
Come  saddle  your  horses  and  call  up  your  men, 
Come  open  the  West  P-o-o-ort,  and  let  me  gang  free, 
And  it's  room  for  the  bonnets  of  Bonnie  Dundee  !  " 

Even  at  the  beginning  there  was  a  rhythmical  swing 
in  his  voice ;  and  before  he  had  gone  far,  he  was  sing- 
ing— openly  and  without  shame,  he  stood  that  evening 
at  the  corner  of  the  West  Port,  and  warbled  the  refrain 
of  "  Bonnie  Dundee  " .  His  singing  voice  was  deep  and 
not  at  all  unpleasant,  but,  oddly  enough,  there  was  in  it 
a  faint  suspicion  of  a  nasal  twang  from  which  his  speech 
was  quite  free. 


"  BONNIE  DUNDEE  "  167 

We  made  our  way  along  the  West  Port.  It  was 
anything  but  an  aristocratic  thoroughfare;  and  it  led 
into  an  open  space,  of  great  length  in  proportion  to  its 
width,  and  bordered  by  tall  houses,  which  in  the  dark- 
ness looked  gloomy  and  degraded.  There  were  a  good 
many  people  about ;  all  seemed  poor,  and  some  were 
manifestly  of  the  submerged  tenth. 

Mr.  Fairfield  made  straight  for  a  policeman. 

"  What  is  this?  "  he  asked. 

"  The  Grassmarket." 

"  The  Grassmarket !  "  The  constable  had  given  the 
penultimate  syllable  at  least  one  additional  r ;  in  his  ex- 
ultant repetition  of  the  word,  Mr.  Fairfield  gave  it  three 
or  four. 

"  I  might  have  guessed  it !  "  he  ejaculated.  "  What 
else  could  it  be?" 

He  seemed  to  expect  no  answer ;  and  for  a  while  he 
stood  contemplating  the  market-place,  and  whistling 
"  Bonnie  Dundee  "  under  his  breath. 

When  he  moved  forward,  he  had  fallen  into  a  brown 
study.  His  walk  had  no  spring  in  it ;  his  hands  were 
clasped  behind  him,  and  his  shoulders  were  hunched 
up  almost  to  his  ears. 

"  There's  no  doubt  about  it;  not  a  shadow  of  doubt. 
It  was  all  cobble  stones  then,  I  expect."  He  was 
evidently  thinking  aloud ;  and  the  next  instant  he  burst 
afresh  into  song : — 

"  With  sour-featured  Whigs  the  Grassmarket  was  crammed, 
As  if  half  the  West  had  set  tryst  to  be  hanged  ; 
There  was  spite  in  each  look,  there  was  fear  in  each  e'e, 
As  they  watched  for  the  bonnets  of  Bonnie  Dundee. " 

Here  he  paused ;  but  before  I  could  make  the  observa- 
tion which  lay  so  ready  on  my  tongue,  he  struck  up 
again : — 

"  These  cowls  of  Kilmaruock  had  spits,  and  had  spears, 
And  lang-hafted  gullies  to  kill  Cavaliers  ; 
But  they  shrunk  to  close-heads,  and  the  causeway  was  free 
At  the  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  Bonnie  Dundee. 


168     RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  I  always  boggled  at  those '  close-heads ' !  I  thought 
it  meant  that  the  Whigs  laid  their  heads  together.  But 
it  means  the  entrances  to  the  closes  that  run  out  of  this 
place." 

We  were  walking  in  file  when  he  said  this,  for  the 
pavement  was  somewhat  crowded  :  the  dwellers  in  the 
Grassmarket  and  its  neighbourhood  were  taking  the  air 
that  evening.  As  he  stopped  and  turned  to  speak  to 
me,  he  seemed  so  elated  in  an  absent-minded  way, 
and  so  unconscious  that  he  was  doing  anything  out  of 
the  common,  that  I  had  not  the  heart  to  make  myself 
unpleasant.  I  took  means,  however,  to  increase  the 
interval  between  us,  as  soon  as  he  had  resumed  his 
saunter.  I  am  not  more  self-conscious  than  other  men  ; 
but  in  the  Grassmarket  that  evening  I  had  felt  uncom- 
fortable, as  I  threaded  my  way  through  an  astonished 
populace,  hard  on  the  heels  of  one  who,  as  he  slouched 
onward,  grave  and  personable  above  the  ordinary,  fixed 
his  eyes  on  vacancy  and  sang  "  Bonnie  Dundee  "  through 
his  nose. 

We  had  paraded  all  round  the  Grassmarket  before 
Mr.  Fairfield  had  entirely  abandoned  his  singing  robes, 
and  returned  to  his  right  mind. 

"You  know  what  we've  been  doing?"  he  inquired 
as  soon  as  I  was  once  again  at  his  side. 

Five  minutes  before,  I  could  have  seized  this  opening 
for  a  stinging  repartee,  and  could  have  done  justice 
to  it ;  but  by  now  I  had  recovered  my  temper,  and  I 
merely  burst  out  laughing.  This  surprised  him ;  but 
in  a  moment  he  was  able  to  take  an  accurate  mental 
review  of  his  late  proceedings. 

"  I  was  not  referring  to  that  high-class  concert,"  he 
said.  There  was  a  note  of  apology  in  his  voice,  and  he 
spoke  with  his  eyes  half-shut  and  a  slight  tightening  of 
the  lips.  He  was  evidently  ashamed  of  himself. 

"  '  The  throstle  cock's  head  is  under  his  wing,'  "  said  I. 

The  penitent  laughed.  "  I  was  a  little  carried  away, 
I'm  afraid.  Till  we  came  to  the  West  Port,  I  had 


"  BONNIE  DUNDEE  "  169 

never  associated  '  Bonnie  Dundee '  with  Edinburgh 
streets.  We've  been  following  up,  backwards,  the  way 
he  went  when  he  rode  out  to  raise  the  West  for  King 
James.  I've  an  impression  that  he  started  from  the 
Parliament  House ;  that's  where  the  Lords  of  Conven- 
tion would  be  sitting.  He  came  by  the  '  sanctified 
bends  of  the  Bow  '.  I  don't  know  where  they  are — we'll 
find  them  to-morrow — and  he  went  to  the  Castle  to 
consult  with  the  Duke  of  Gordon.  That  must  be  quite 
near — perhaps  one  can  see  it." 

I  forget  whether,  just  at  that  moment,  we  were 
standing  in  the  West  Port  or  the  Grassmarket ;  but 
wherever  it  was,  Mr.  Fairfield  turned  to  look  about 
him. 

"  Good  heavens !  "  he  exclaimed,  pointing  upwards, 
"  what's  that  ?  " 

My  eyes  followed  his  direction,  and  I  saw,  high  above 
us,  a  cluster  of  lights  showing  in  the  heavens  like  a  con- 
stellation. It  seemed  just  over  our  heads. 

"  It's  the  buildings  at  the  top  of  the  rock,"  he  said,  a 
moment  later ;  and  he  gave  vent  to  a  whistle  of  astonish- 
ment. 

I,  too,  was  astonished.  The  lights  hung  so  high  and 
were  so  directly  overhead,  that  they  seemed  to  belong 
to  the  firmament.  No  daylight  view  could  have  brought 
home  to  us  the  height  and  sheerness  of  the  Castle  rock 
with  the  like  force. 

"  Claverhouse  climbed  up  the  west  face — that's  the 
side  that  looks  towards  the  Lothian  Eoad — and  the 
Duke  met  him  at  the  sally-port.  We  must  find  that  out, 
too.  The  '  kittle  nine-steps '  that  Scott  used  to  climb 
when  a  boy  are  somewhere  near  it,  I  think." 

"  You  seem  to  have  got  bitten  with  '  Bonnie  Dundee,'  " 
said  I,  using  a  phrase  that  was  often  in  his  mouth. 

"  I  plead  guilty.  It's  been  running  in  my  head  ever 
since  I  was  a  boy.  There's  no  reciting  '  Bonnie  Dun- 
dee ' — a  man  must  sing  it  or  let  it  alone.  Is  there 
another  song  in  our  tongue  of  which  you  can  say  the 


170    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

like  ?  "  he  went  on,  now  at  white  heat.  "  Man  alive  ! 
I'd  give  everything  I've  got,  including  the  clothes  I 
stand  up  in,  to  have  written  a  song  like  that." 

A  moment  later  he  was  smiling  at  his  own  enthu- 
siasm. "  I  suppose  every  one  has  his  favourite  song,"  he 
said ;  "  mine  carries  me  away  because  there's  more  go  in 
it  than  any  one  else's ;  I'm  like  Mr.  Kipling's  war-horse." 

He  was  very  merry  by  this  time.  As  he  spoke  he 
scrutinized  my  face,  as  if  doubtful  of  his  ground,  and 
seeing  that  I  was  tickled,  he  had  the  audacity  to  break 
once  again  into  melody  : — 

"  By  the  brand  on  my  shoulder,  the  finest  of  tunes 
Is  played  by  the  Lancers,  Hussars,  and  Dragoons  ; 
And  it's  sweeter  than  '  Stables '  or  '  Water '  to  me — 
The  Cavalry  Canter  of  Bonnie  Dundee  !  " 

"  You  are  indeed  bitten  with  it,"  said  I,  laughing. 

"  Mon !  "  he  protested,  with  great  solemnity,  as  he 
laid  a  hand  upon  my  arm,  "it's  waur  than  that — I'm 
fair  grippit  wi'  it."  This  was  his  first  independent  ex- 
cursion into  the  wilds  of  the  vernacular. 

"  The  '  bends  of  the  Bow '  were  the  windings  of  the 
West  Bow,"  he  remarked,  later  in  the  evening,  as  he 
rose  from  the  table  where  he  had  been  looking  into  the 
guide-books,  and  made  for  his  armchair.  "  It  ran  from 
the  High  Street  to  the  Grassmarket.  It's  gone  now, 
and  a  curve  called  Victoria  Street  occupies  part  of  it. 
We'll  look  at  it  to-morrow.  I  can't  make  the  song  fit 
with  the  '  Tales  of  a  Grandfather,'  but  we'll  stick  to 
the  song." 

"  I've  often  wondered,"  he  continued,  "  how  Scott 
came  to  perpetrate  such  an  enormity  as  to  make 
'  crammed  '  rhyme  with  '  hanged  ' — 

With  sour-featured  Whigs  the  Grassmarket  was  crammed, 
As  if  half  the  West  had  set  tryst  to  be  hanged. 

I  know  he  was  careless,  but  he  had  a  good  ear,  and 
I  don't  believe  there's  such  another  atrocity  in  all  his 


THE   OI.IJ   \VKST   11O\V. 
(From  <i  drawing  by  Caltcnnole.) 


"  BONNIE  DUNDEE  "  171 

poetry.     I  suppose  he  really  did  write  '  crammed,'  but 
wasn't  it  a  mere  slip  of  the  pen  ?  " 

"  What  did  he  mean  to  write  then — is  there  any 
feasible  rhyme?" 

"  I've  thought  of '  thranged,'  but  I'm  not  Scot  enough 
to  'knowjwhether  the  word  was  possible.  I'm  pretty  sure, 
though,  that  Burns  calls  a  throng  a  thrang,  so  perhaps 
there's  the  verb,  too." 

"  But  could  such  a  mistake  escape  notice?  " 

"  I  think  so.  Don't  you  know  that  '  gods '  has  been 
printed  for  '  birds '  over  and  over  again  in  Lovelace's 
'  To  Althea,'  just  because  there  was  the  misprint  in  the 
first  edition  ?  And  there's  a  misprint — at  least,  I  feel 
sure  it  is — in  another  very  famous  poem,  which  has 
never  been  corrected." 

There  was  mystery  in  Mr.  Fairfield's  tone  as  he 
spoke  of  this  poem,  and  he  looked  into  my  face,  as  if 
half-unwilling  to  be  put  to  the  question.  I  could  see 
that  some  important  disclosure  was  trembling  on  his  lips. 

"  I'll  promise  not  to  write  to  '  Notes  and  Queries,' ' 
said  I. 

"  I'm  sure  you  won't,"  he  answered  in  all  simplicity. 
"  Well,  it's  in  George  Herbert's  '  Virtue  ' .  You  won't 
recognize  it  under  that  name — he  wasn't  happy  in  his 
titles.  It's  the  beautiful  thing  that  begins — 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky. 

Now  the  second  verse  is  always  printed  thus — 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue  angry  and  brave, 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye. 

Do  you  see  anything  wrong  ?  " 

"  The  first  line  is  a  little  jolty,"  I  admitted,  after  I 
had  made  him  recite  all  four  verses  twice  over. 

"  Good !  that's  it.  What  George  Herbert  wrote  was 
this — 

Sweet  rose,  whose  angry  hue  and  brave. 


172    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

Can  any  one  doubt  that  the  inversion  is  a  printer's 
error?" 

"  It  never  struck  me,  till  we  got  into  the  Grassmarket, 
how  clearly  Scott  saw  the  things  he  described — the 
things  he  invented,  I  mean,"  said  my  friend  after  an 
interval ;  and  he  laid  down  a  volume  of  the  poems  as  he 
spoke.  "  Lockhart  says,  somewhere,  that  he  used  to 
write  with  a  smile  of  conscious  inspiration  on  his  lips. 
I  don't  wonder  at  it.  Just  think  what  a  complete 
picture  he  had  in  his  mind  of  what  the  Grassmarket 
looked  like  that  day,  and  how  he  makes  you  see  it  too. 
Do  you  remember  that  pretty  touch  of  the  young  girls 
siding  with  Claverhouse  because  he  looked  so  bonnie  ? — 

As  he  rode  down  the  sanctified  bends  of  the  Bow, 

Ilk  carline  was  flyting  and  shaking  her  pow  ; 

But  the  young  plants  of  grace  they  looked  couthie  and  slee, 

Thinking — Luck  to  thy  bonnet,  thou  Bonnie  Dundee  !  " 

Lying  back  in  his  chair,  with  the  text  of  the  song 
before  him,  he  could  quote  without  lapsing  into  melody. 

"  There's  a  fine  touch  in  the  last  verse,"  he  resumed, 
"  which  shows  how  he  felt  what  he  was  writing  about — 
penny-a-liners  call  it  visualizing,  I  think.  I  mean  the 
blowing  of  the  trumpets  and  the  clashing  of  the  kettle- 
drums when  the  column  moved  off — that's  a  reminiscence 
of  Scott's  yeomanry  days — 

He  waved  his  proud  hand,  and  the  trumpets  were  blown, 
The  kettle-drums  clashed,  and  the  horsemen  rode  on, 
Till  on  Ravelston's  cliffs  and  on  Chermiston's  lee, 
Died  away  the  wild  war-notes  of  Bonnie  Dundee. 

And  I've  thought  of  another  instance.  It's  that  line  in 
'  Young  Lochinvar ' — '  And  the  bridegroom  stood  dang- 
ling his  bonnet  and  plume '.  Doesn't  that  bring  the 
poor  creature  before  your  eyes,  just  as  a  picture 
would?" 

"  I  told  you  that  '  Bonnie  Dundee '  had  been  run- 
ning in  my  head  ever  since  I  was  a  boy,"  he  went  on. 


"  BONNIE  DUNDEE  "  173 

"  That's  true  enough,  but  I  don't  think  it  fairly  took 
hold  of  me,  until  I  read  in  Lockhart  how  it  was 
written.  I'll  read  it  to  you  if  you  don't  mind.  I  can 
find  it  quicker  in  the  '  Journal '.  It  was  early  in  1826, 
I  think." 

"  It  was  near  the  end  of  1825  that  Scott  learned 
there  was  danger  in  the  air,"  he  explained,  the  vol- 
ume now  in  his  hand ;  "  and,  a  little  later,  ruin 
stared  him  in  the  face.  But  just  before  Christmas 
some  good  news  came.  He  had  a  gleam  of  hope,  and 
he  wrote  the  song.  This  is  what  he  says  about  it 
under  date  of  22nd  December,  1825  : — 

"  The  air  of  '  Bonnie  Dundee '  running  in  my  head  to-day,  I 
wrote  a  few  verses  to  it  before  dinner,  taking  the  key-note  from 
the  story  of  Clavers  leaving  the  Scottish  Convention  of  Estates  in 
1688-9.  I  wonder  if  they  are  good.  Ah  !  poor  Will  Erskine,  thou 
could'st  and  would'st  have  told  me.  I  must  consult  James  Bal- 
lantyne  who  is  as  honest  as  was  Will  Erskine.  But  then  though 
he  has  good  taste  too,  there  is  a  little  of  Big  Bow-wow  about  it. 
Can't  say  what  made  me  take  a  frisk  so  uncommon  of  late  years  as 
to  write  verses  of  freewill.  I  suppose  the  same  impulse  which 
makes  birds  sing  when  the  storm  seems  blown  over. 

He  says  when  the  storm  seems  blown  over.  I  don't 
think  he  was  really  very  hopeful ;  but  he  cheered  up, 
and  he  wrote  '  Bonnie  Dundee '.  He  never  wrote  any- 
thing very  joyful  after  it.  The  crash  came  within  a 
few  days." 

"  It's  good  to  read  about  him  in  his  adversity  in  his 
own  words,"  said  Mr.  F  airfield,  a  little  later,  as  he  closed 
the  "  Journal "  with  a  sigh ;  "  it  may  teach  a  man  how 
to  bear  himself  when  trouble  comes  upon  him  :  trouble 
in  mind,  or  body  or  estate ;  it  came  to  Scott  in  all  three 
— but  it's  not  good  to  talk  about  it." 


CHAPTEE  XIII 
MR.  FAIRFIELD  WIELDS  THE  VERNACULAR 

NOTWITHSTANDING  the  glamour  of  the  Old  Town,  the 
airy  vistas  of  the  New,  the  majestical  station  of  Edin- 
burgh as  a  whole,  and  the  glorious  prospects  that  it 
commanded,  Mr.  Fairfield  would  have  torn  himself 
away  from  it  after  a  few  days'  sojourn,  but  for  its  as- 
sociations with  Sir  Walter's  life  and  work.  It  was  as 
Scott's  own  romantic  town,  the  place  which  in  his  love 
stood  second  only  to  his  own  Tweedside,  that  Edinburgh 
appealed  most  strongly  to  the  pilgrim  from  Chicago; 
and  during  our  stay  there,  Scott  was  always  uppermost 
in  his  thoughts. 

After  the  night  of  our  arrival  we  fell  into  the  custom 
of  strolling  out  together  in  the  evening ;  and  without  a 
word  as  to  our  direction  being  said  on  either  side,  our 
feet  always  turned  westward,  and  sooner  or  later  we 
stood  before  39  Castle  Street.  We  rarely  spoke  to  one 
another,  or  looked  at  the  house,  as  we  paced  up  and 
down  on  the  other  side  of  the  way,  smoking.  I  daresay 
some  of  the  dwellers  in  the  neighbourhood  used  to 
wonder  what  moved  the  spare  elderly  tourist  and  his 
companion  to  choose  such  a  short  stretch  of  paving  stones 
for  their  evening  stroll. 

"  Scott's  entry  in  his  journal,  when  he  heard  that  an 
offer  had  been  made  for  this  house,  is  very  characteristic," 
said  Mr.  Fairfield,  in  the  course  of  one  of  these  prom- 
enades. "  You  can  see  how  he  feels  parting  with  it, 
though  he  tries  to  comfort  himself  by  saying  that  as  he  has 
bade  good-bye  to  his  poor  wife,  so  long  its  kind  and  courte- 

174 


WIELDING  THE  VERNACULAR     175 

ous  mistress — she  had  been  dead  only  six  weeks — he  need 
not  care  about  the  empty  rooms.  But  he  adds,  '  yet  it 
gives  me  a  turn,'  and  he  winds  up — '  Never  mind,  all  in 
the  day's  work'.  Sophia  Scott  was  married  to  Lock- 
hart  there ;  I  suppose  in  the  drawing-room — that  room 
on  the  first  floor." 

"  Poor  thirty -nine,"  as  Scott  twice  calls  it  in  his 
journal,  was  not  the  only  one  of  his  dwellings  that  we 
visited.  Thanks  to  Lockhart  and  the  '  Journal,'  sup- 
plemented to  some  extent  by  Mr.  Geddie's  book,  we 
were  able  to  trace  Sir  Walter's  footsteps  from  one  end 
of  Edinburgh  to  the  other.  We  saw  the  tablet  on 
Number  8  Chambers  Street,  which  marks  the  approxi- 
mate site  of  his  birthplace ;  and  we  journeyed  to  George 
Square,  where  under  his  parents'  roof  he  passed  his  boy- 
hood and  early  manhood,  and  to  the  lodgings  at  108 
George  Street,  whither  he  carried  home  his  bride.  The 
house  Number  3  Walker  Street,  which  he  took  for  the 
winter  of  1826,  and  which  he  described  as  comfortable 
and  convenient,  stands  to-day  as  it  stood  in  his  time, 
and  looks  none  the  worse  for  wear ;  but  the  lodgings  at 
6  St.  David's  Street,  which  he  went  to  in  May,  1826, 
just  after  the  crash — the  place  where  "  the  insects  were 
voracious,"  and  the  cheese  was  a  "  choke-dog  concern  " — 
are  now  no  more ;  and  when  we  sought  out  "  Mrs.  Job- 
son's  house,"  6  Shandwick  Place,  his  last  fixed  residence 
in  Edinburgh,  we  felt  grave  doubts  as  to  its  authenticity. 
It  seemed  impossible  that  the  house  we  saw  could  date 
back  to  Sir  Walter's  time.  We  ferreted  out,  too,  75 
George  Street,  which  was  his  mother's  home  during  her 
widowhood,  and  6  Atholl  Crescent,  where,  in  February, 
1831,  he  made  his  will,  and  where  he  wrote  a  great 
deal  of  '  Count  Robert,'  with,  alas,  a  pen  that  stammered 
egregiously. 

Of  all  Scott's  dwelling-places,  Number  25  George 
Square  pleased  us  most.  The  stone  houses  of  this 
square  have  a  warmer  tint  than  is  common  in  Edin- 
burgh, and  their  want  of  uniformity  is  not  unpleasing 


176    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

to  the  eye ;  it  only  adds  to  the  comfortable,  homely  air 
of  the  place.  When  the  original  of  Saunders  Fairford 
moved  his  household  there,  and  subjected  himself,  by  so 
doing,  to  a  wrench  which  his  son  compared  to  a  divorce 
of  the  soul  from  the  body,  "  a  self-contained  house  "  in 
George  Square  must  have  formed  a  strange  contrast  to 
the  apartments  in  Auld  Beekie  where  the  child  was 
born.  Even  to  modern  eyes  the  Square  is  more  than 
usually  fortunate  in  its  surroundings ;  for  its  own  green 
enclosure  is  a  handsome  open  space,  and  close  to  it 
stretch  the  long  airy  levels  of  The  Meadows. 

"  It  was  from  that  door  that  the  father  and  mother, 
attended,  as  the  tutor  Mitchell  says,  by  their  fine  young 
family  of  children  and  their  domestic  servants,  used  to 
sally  forth  on  Sundays  for  the  Old  Greyfriars  Church," 
said  Mr.  F airfield,  after  he  had  stood  for  some  time 
gazing  at  the  front  of  Number  25.  "I  must  have  a 
look  at  the  back  before  we  go ;  you  may  depend  upon 
it  Scott's  bedroom  was  at  the  back.  The  ground  floor 
would  be  taken  up  by  the  old  man's  office ;  the  first 
floor  would  be  the  living  rooms,  and  the  old  people 
would  have  the  big  front  bedroom  on  the  second  floor. 
The  boys  would  have  a  big  bedroom  at  the  back." 

"  Who  can  doubt  that  the  room  was  the  second-floor- 
back  ?  "  said  I  with  gentle  sarcasm.  "  Give  me  a  little 
time,  Fairfield,  and  a  few  more  of  your  certainties,  and 
I  will  tell  you  what  the  pattern  of  the  wall-paper  was." 

"  I  always  like  to  look  at  the  back  of  an  interesting 
house  as  soon  as  I've  seen  the  front,"  he  went  on,  with- 
out regarding  me.  "  The  first  difficulty  is  to  get  round 
to  the  back  ;  and  when  you've  got  there,  and  the  house 
is  one  of  a  row,  it's  no  easy  job  to  make  sure  which  it 
is.  I've  spent  hours  in  London  trying  to  identify  the 
backs  of  houses,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield,  in  the  tone  of  a 
veteran,  who  recounts  the  toils  and  struggles  of  his  prime, 
"  and  more  than  once  I've  had  to  ask  a  shopkeeper 
to  let  me  have  a  look  out  of  one  of  his  back  windows. 
I  don't  mind  this  if  they  sell  anything  you  can  buy ; 


WIELDING  THE  VERNACULAR    177 

but  even  that's  difficult  sometimes.  I  remember  once,  I 
had  to  make  a  choice  between  a  fried-fish  shop,  a  marine- 
store,  and  a  small  pork  butcher's,  where  there  was  no- 
thing in  the  window  but  some  cold  blocks  of  seasoning, 
standing  in  congealed  grease.  That  was  at  Hoxton." 

"  Which  did  you  choose?  " 

"  At  first,"  he  answered,  with  a  gravity  that  showed 
how  much  he  enjoyed  the  recital  of  his  experiences,  "  at 
first  I  was  inclined  to  speculate  in  fried  fish,  and  trust  to 
their  wrapping  it  up  in  sufficient  paper  to  keep  the 
grease  at  bay  until  I  got  out  of  sight ;  but  eventually  I 
decided  in  favour  of  marine-stores." 

"  What  did  you  buy  ?  " 

"  A  pair  of  compasses.  One  leg  was  stuck  into  the 
wood-work  of  the  window  frame,  and  this  attracted  my 
eye.  Nothing  could  have  been  handsomer  than  the 
conduct  of  the  proprietor.  He  pointed  out  that  one  leg 
was  an  inch  shorter  than  the  other ;  he  thought  I  had 
not  '  noticed  '  this.  I  explained  that  I  could  make  all 
right  again  by  shortening  the  other  leg ;  and  he  was  so 
struck  by  my  ingenuity  and  the  general  charm  of  my 
conversation  that,  after  escorting  me  to  the  window  of 
his  first-floor-back,  he  was  kind  enough  to  take  me 
down  into  the  backyard  to  admire  the  water-butt." 

"  There's  no  difficulty  in  getting  round  to  the  back 
here.  There's  a  road  between  this  side  of  the  Square 
and  some  public  building  that  looks  upon  The  Meadows 
— a  hospital  I  think — but  I'd  better  make  sure  of  my 
bearings." 

So  saying,  my  friend  ticked  off  with  his  finger  the 
houses  between  the  left-hand  corner  of  the  Square  and 
Number  25. 

"  It's  the  fifth  house  from  that  end,"  said  he ;  "  and, 
what's  better,  it's  the  second  from  the  low  house  on  the 
right.  That's  the  sort  of  landmark  I  like." 

This  elaborate  process  proved  effectual.  He  was 
able  to  identify  the  back  of  Number  25,  but  I  cannot 
say  whether  it  presented  any  feature  of  interest.  I  did 
12 


178    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

not  accompany  him  on  his  survey ;  and  when  he  came 
back  and  I  asked  him  if  he  had  had  good  sport,  he 
merely  nodded,  and  added  a  note  to  one  of  his  scraps 
of  memoranda. 

Mr.  Fairfield's  Scott-worship  did  not  content  itself 
with  merely  identifying  and  mooning  about  Sir  Walter's 
places  of  residence ;  he  was  always  on  the  look-out  for 
traces  of  his  hero's  footsteps  or  the  footsteps  of  his 
creations.  These  traces  were  not  hard  to  find,  and  he 
followed  them  up  with  an  enthusiasm  that  never 
slackened.  The  characters  in  the  novels  were,  for  the 
time  being,  as  real  to  him  as  was  Scott  himself ;  and 
he  seemed  as  well  pleased  to  follow  Colonel  Mannering 
and  Dandie  Dinmont  in  their  progress  to  the  tavern 
in  Writers'  Court  where  they  caught  Pleydell  at  high 
jinks,  as  he  was  to  follow  Sir  Walter  in  his  strolls  home 
from  the  Parliament  House  or  his  favourite  walk  under 
the  Salisbury  Crags.  When  we  were  in  the  Canongate 
together,  he  could  never  resist  the  temptation  to  turn 
down  St.  John's  Street  to  have  one  more  look  at  James 
Ballantyne's  house ;  and  as  he  stood  before  Number  10  in 
a  brown  study,  I  felt  no  doubt  that  in  imagination  he 
was  taking  part  in  one  of  those  gorgeous  dinners,  which 
heralded  the  appearance  of  a  new  Waverley  novel,  and 
which  Lockhart  describes  with  such  good-humoured  con- 
tempt. In  the  Canongate  Churchyard,  not  a  stone's- 
throw  from  St.  John's  Street,  lies  good  Scottish  dust 
in  plenty ;  but,  in  Mr.  Fairfield's  eyes,  the  chief  interest 
of  the  place  was  owing  to  the  fact  that  John  Ballantyne 
was  buried  there,  and  Sir  Walter  had  stood  at  the  open 
grave  with  Lockhart  at  his  side,  and  had  whispered, 
as  he  marked  the  sun  gleam  on  the  walls  and  towers  of 
the  Calton  Hill,  "  I  feel  as  if  there  would  be  less  sun- 
shine for  me  from  this  day  forth  ". 

It  was  our  custom  in  wet  weather  to  seek  refuge  in 
the  museums  and  picture  galleries  of  Edinburgh.  Our 
visit  to  the  Museum  of  Science  and  Art  in  Chambers 
Street  was  something  of  a  disappointment.  The  exhibits 


WIELDING  THE  VERNACULAR     179 

were  no  doubt  admirable  in  themselves,  and  of  great 
educational  value ;  but  to  us  they  were  as  dry  as  saw- 
dust. 

We  mounted  several  flights  of  stairs  and  paused  on 
several  floors  to  take  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  things  to 
be  seen;  but  truth  to  tell,  we  had  not  been  in  the 
building  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  when  my  friend  stopped 
dead,  and  asked  me  with  a  gloomy  countenance  why  I 
was  so  anxious  that  we  should  improve  our  minds.  I 
disclaimed  any  such  anxiety ;  and  the  matter  ended  in 
our  spending  the  rest  of  the  morning  in  the  cathedral. 

I  am  afraid  to  say  upon  what  storey  of  the  Municipal 
Buildings  in  the  Eoyal  Exchange  the  museum  of  civic 
curiosities  and  relics  is  situate.  The  stairs  that  lead  up 
to  it  are  as  the  sands  of  the  sea  in  multitude ;  but  when 
once  the  ascent  to  that  heaven-kissing  room  has  been 
accomplished,  no  lover  of  the  by-ways  of  history  can  say 
that  he  has  journeyed  in  vain.  The  place  is  a  veritable 
treasure-house,  and  before  we  had  been  in  it  for  five 
minutes,  we  had  the  good  fortune  to  make  friends  with 
the  custodian.  Thanks  to  his  explanation,  the  contents 
of  the  museum  and  particularly  its  fine  collection  of 
drawings  of  the  now  demolished  closes  of  the  High 
Street  and  the  Canongate,  made  the  Edinburgh  of  by- 
gone days  live  before  our  eyes. 

When  our  guide  told  us  that  he  was  entitled  to  call 
himself  a  relic  of  the  old  city,  we  hailed  the  statement 
as  a  joke,  for  in  vigour  and  activity  he  seemed  a  man 
in  the  early  sixties ;  but  when  we  found  that  he  had 
seen  Sir  Walter  and  had  been  a  member  of  one  of  the 
old  Edinburgh  Trades,  we  admitted  that  his  claim  was 
well  founded ;  and,  when  we  went  our  way,  it  was  with 
a  conviction  that,  of  all  the  museum  contained,  there 
was  nothing  more  interesting  than  the  old  gentleman 
who  watched  over  it. 

We  turned  westward  when  we  left  the  Municipal 
Buildings.  Mr.  Fairfield  moved  on  lagging  feet,  and 
paused  at  every  close-head  to  take  what  might  be  a 


180    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

last  look  down  the  entry.  Our  stay  in  Edinburgh  was 
drawing  near  its  end ;  and  for  all  we  knew  we  might 
never  see  the  High  Street  again.  We  passed  Warriston's 
Close  and  the  long  slope  of  Eoxburgh's  Close  without 
more  than  a  minute's  halt ;  but  when  we  came  to  Advo- 
cates' Close,  we  turned  down  it.  We  had  always  felt  a 
peculiar  interest  in  that  passage  ;  and  just  then  this  in- 
terest was  livelier  than  usual,  for  it  had  been  quickened 
by  the  drawings  which  we  had  seen  in  the  museum. 
Some  of  these  showed  the  Close  as  it  stood  in  its  palmy 
days,  when  a  Lord  Advocate  did  not  disdain  to  live  in 
it,  and  others  showed  it  as  it  looked  when  in  process  of 
demolition.  But  though  modern  improvements  have 
swept  away  the  old  legal  hive,  the  entrance  has  been 
spared.  The  building  fronting  the  High  Street  is  of 
hoar  antiquity,  and  the  tunnel  that  runs  under  it  must 
be  the  passage  by  which  the  old-time  dwellers  in  the 
Close  passed  in  and  out. 

We  made  our  way  through  this  tunnel  and  down  two 
of  the  many  flights  of  steps  that  lead  the  passenger  by 
easy  stages  from  the  level  of  the  High  Street  to  the 
level  of  the  old  Nor'  Loch.  On  the  platform  at  the 
foot  of  the  second  flight,  Mr.  F  airfield  pulled  up.  It 
was  not  by  any  means  our  first  visit,  and  he  lounged 
against  the  iron  handrail  and  lit  a  cigar,  with  the  air  of 
one  who  was  quite  at  home.  Opposite  him  stood  two 
old  doorways,  each  bearing  a  motto  and  initials,  and 
the  date  1590.  On  the  right  rose  the  turret  stairway 
of  the  many-storied  pile  through  which  the  tunnel  ran. 
Northward,  through  the  buildings,  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill,  one  caught  a  glimpse  of  Princes  Street ;  and  a  little 
westward,  the  Scott  Memorial  showed  itself  above  a 
house-top. 

"  I've  been  thinking  of  those  scraps  of  '  Tarn 
o*  Shanter '  that  our  old  friend  recited,"  said  my  fellow- 
tourist. 

In  a  small  room  annexed  to  the  museum  there  is  a 
collection  of  Burns  relics.  In  showing  us  these,  the 


WIELDING  THE  VERNACULAR    181 

custodian  had  recited  some  lines  of  "  Tarn  o'  Shanter," 
and  a  little  later  we  had  heard  him  recite  a  few  more 
to  a  group  of  enthusiastic  visitors.  This  was  what  my 
friend  referred  to. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Burns  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  read  him." 

"  Nobody  does,  for  that  matter ;  but  most  people 
know  whether  they  like  him  or  dislike  him." 

"  Do  you  like  him  ?  " 

"  I  hate  him." 

"  Why  ?  "  I  asked  this  in  some  astonishment,  for  my 
friend  had  spoken  with  strange  vehemence. 

Mr.  Fairfield  blew  the  ash  off  his  cigar,  and  stared 
for  some  time  at  the  two  mottoes  in  front  of  him. 

"  I  believe  it's  because  he  was  such  a  bad  citizen," 
was  his  reluctant  answer. 

"  That's  an  odd  reason  for  hating  his  poetry." 

"  It's  justifiable  in  the  case  of  Burns.  Some  of  his 
work  speaks  for  itself ;  and  his  worshippers  have  shouted 
so  much  about  him  from  the  housetops,  that  a  good  deal 
of  the  rest  stinks  in  decent  nostrils." 

"I  mean  the  love  songs,"  he  went  on;  "the  clean 
ones  that  you  hear  in  drawing-rooms.  They're  pretty 
enough  in  themselves,  but  I  hate  them.  When  other 
men  sing  about  loving  and  losing  you  can  feel  senti- 
mental; but  not  with  Burns.  You  know  too  much 
about  him  and  his  love  affairs.  And,  apart  from  that, 
he  was  a  disreputable  fellow.  I  am  not  fond  of  toss- 
pots." 

"  Ah !  "  said  I,  "  I  thought  we  should  come  to  that. 
But  haven't  a  few  other  poets  been  a  little  moist?" 

"  Whether  they  have  or  not,  doesn't  touch  my  point. 
It's  seeing  such  a  bad  citizen  made  a  national  hero  that 
stirs  me  up.  That's  why  I  hate  him." 

"  But  isn't  that  ridiculous?  " 

Mr.  Fairfield  pondered.  "  It's  like  this,"  he  said  ;  "  I 
think  poorly  of  him  as  a  poet,  and  I  loathe  him  as  a 
man  ;  but  I  didn't  care  two  straws  about  him  till  I  came 


182    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

here.  But  when  I  can't  look  into  a  shop  window  with- 
out seeing  his  portrait  or  his  bust  stuck  opposite  to 
Scott's,  as  if  the  two  were  the  great  twin  brethren  of 
Scottish  literature,  I  get  mad.  The  thing's  ridiculous." 

"  But  is  his  poetry  poor?  " 

"  I  think  it  is !  but  just  now  I  am  not  sure.  I've 
read  '  Tarn  o'  Shanter '.  I  daresay  I've  read  it  more 
than  once,  and  if  you'd  asked  me  yesterday  what  I 
thought  of  it  I  should  have  said  it  was  poor  stuff.  But 
when  our  old  friend  recited  those  lines  they  seemed  to 
me  to  have  fire  and  vigour.  The  inflection  was  different, 
somehow.  It  seemed  to  put  life  into  them ;  they  seemed 
racy.  I  was  puzzling  over  the  thing  when  we  turned 
in  here." 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  some  literary  Scotsmen  what 
they  think?" 

"  It's  no  good.  Speaking  to  a  Scot  about  Burns 
is  like  speaking  to  a  church  minister  about  dogma.  If 
you're  in  the  same  line  of  business,  or  you've  been  to 
school  and  college  with  him,  you  may  spell  out  what  he 
really  thinks;  but  if  not,  you'd  better  let  him  alone. 
When  a  man  turns  that  side  of  his  mind  inwards,  you 
can  go  on  pecking  at  the  other,  if  you  like  the  sport ; 
but  you'll  only  make  your  beak  sore." 

"  But  after  all,  what  does  it  matter  to  you  whether 
the  poetry's  good  or  bad  ?  If  you  don't  care  for  it  you 
needn't  read  it." 

"  I  like  to  know  what  I  think  about  things.  It's 
hateful  to  have  loose  ends  hanging  around  in  your 
mind." 

"  That  shows  you  never  had  a  legal  education,"  said  I. 

"A  reasonable  man  ought  to  make  up  his  mind. 
He  ought  to  reach  conclusions ;  and  he  ought  to  get  to 
them  by  three  stages.  He  begins  with  an  impression  ; 
he  goes  on  to  an  opinion,  and  he  ends  with  a  convic- 
tion." Mr.  Fairneld  was  so  much  in  earnest  that,  to 
emphasize  his  points,  he  tapped  his  left  palm  with  two 
fingers. 


WIELDING  THE  VERNACULAR   183 

"  The  years  of  a  man  are  only  three-score  and  ten," 
said  I. 

"  Don't  men,  as  a  rule,  make  up  their  minds? " 

"  Not  one  in  a  hundred  has  a  mind,  to  begin  with ; 
and  not  one  in  a  thousand  travels  over  your  three  stages. 
I  suppose  every  one  starts  with  what  you  call  an  im- 
pression. It's  a  loose  word,  but  it's  convenient.  I'll 
go  so  far  as  to  admit  that  every  one  begins  that  way." 

"And  what  then?" 

"  The  next  and  last  stage  is  a  prejudice.  That's  a 
clumsy  word,  but  it's  the  best  you  can  get  for  an  opinion 
that's  formed  without  knowledge  or  reflection." 

Mr.  Fairfield  laughed.  "I'll  pass  what  you  say 
through  the  three  stages  after  we've  had  a  cup  of  tea," 
he  said  as  he  rose  from  the  handrail  and  stretched  him- 
self. "I  don't  think  it  will  take  me  long;  but  as  re- 
gards the  poetry,  I'm  beginning  to  feel  a  little  doubt 
whether  I  didn't  miss  the  second  stage,  after  all ;  and 
I'm  with  you  to  this  extent — if  that's  left  out,  the  last 
stage  is  worse  than  the  first." 

"  I  suppose  Burns  must  have  passed  down  this  entry 
at  some  time  or  other,"  I  said,  as  we  were  making  our 
way  back  to  the  High  Street. 

"  Impossible  to  say,  without  knowing  what  the  old 
buildings  were.  If  there  was  a  howff  among  them — they 
call  his  public-houses  '  howffs ' — the  chances  are  that 
he  came  here  pretty  often." 

"  We  won't  talk  about  him  any  more,"  I  protested, 
laughing ;  "  but  when  I  get  home  I  mean  to  have  a 
look  at  his  poetry.  I  used  to  read  it  on  the  sly  when  I 
was  a  boy." 

"  You  won't  get  far,"  asserted  my  companion,  with  a 
decision  that  seemed  to  smack  of  the  third  stage. 

Our  experiences  in  one  of  the  Edinburgh  museums 
were  not  marked  by  the  official  amenities  which  had 
made  our  inspection  of  the  municipal  collection  so  de- 
lightful. In  the  museum  I  am  referring  to — I  need  not 
give  its  name — Mr.  Fairfield  stood  one  wet  morning, 


184    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

examining  a  case  of  coins  and  medals.  The  object  of 
his  particular  attention  was  small,  and  the  light  was  not 
good.  He  was  wholly  absorbed  in  his  scrutiny,  and  his 
nose  was  within  an  inch  or  two  of  the  glass  covering, 
as  he  stood  with  his  long  body  bent  over  the  case  and 
his  hands  resting  on  the  frame. 

"  Don't  lean  on  the  glass  there  !  " 

The  tone  was  so  peremptory,  the  voice  was  so  tre- 
mendous, and  the  attendant  responsible  for  the  outrage 
was  so  near,  that  my  poor  friend  fairly  sprang  into  the 
air. 

"  I  was  not  leaning  on  the  glass,"  he  protested,  as 
soon  as  he  had  recovered  his  composure.  He  spoke 
icily,  but  there  was  an  angry  colour  in  his  cheeks. 

"Iwasna'  speaking  to  you."  The  official  delivered 
this  unexpected  repartee  in  a  bellow  that  made  the 
place  ring.  For  a  moment  his  victim  paused  and  glared 
at  him  in  speechless  indignation.  He  might  as  well 
have  glared  at  the  Castle  rock ;  for  the  man  stood  bolt 
upright,  apparently  unconscious  of  my  friend's  existence 
and  looking  neither  to  the  right  hand  nor  to  the  left. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon ;  it  sounded  as  if  you  were  speak- 
ing to  the  whole  British  nation."  Mr.  F airfield  spoke 
with  cold  contempt ;  and,  strange  to  say,  there  was  a 
nasal  intonation  in  his  voice.  But  the  next  instant  his 
face  broke  into  a  smile,  and  he  laid  a  friendly  hand 
upon  the  other's  arm. 

"  Mon,"  he  said  admiringly,  and  from  the  full  height 
of  his  superior  stature,  "  it's  a  grrran'  machine  yon 
voice  of  yours.  Ye  munna  bur-r-rust  it." 

The  attendant  stepped  back;  and  a  gurgle  in  his 
throat  told  us  that  he  was  endeavouring  to  make  a  re- 
tort. But  the  attempt  failed ;  for  once  in  his  life  that 
official  had  met  his  match.  He  went  back  to  his  seat 
without  a  word ;  and  when  I  ventured  to  steal  a  look 
in  his  direction,  his  newspaper  was  lying  upon  his  knees 
and  he  was  staring  straight  in  front  of  him,  with  eyes 
that  seemed  to  ask  questions  which  his  lips  refused  to 


WIELDING  THE  VERNACULAR   185 

frame.  It  was  not  long  before  we  drifted  into  the  open 
air. 

"  A  man  ought  to  behave  himself  when  he's  not  in 
his  own  country,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield,  "  but  when  an 
official  of  any  kind  does  something  outrageous  and  then 
drapes  himself  in  the  immunity  of  his  office  and  be- 
comes statuesque,  it's  hard  to  bear  the  rule  in  mind. 
I've  never  let  myself  go  in  this  way  before  to-day; 
though  I've  been  in  sore  temptation  many  times,  par- 
ticularly in  Germany.  I'm  sorry  I  knocked  a  splinter 
off  that  dour  slab  of  old  red  granite." 

I  had  no  great  belief  in  my  friend's  sorrow;  for  his 
air  as  he  recalled  the  scene  inside  was  suggestive  of 
triumph  rather  than  remorse.  When  I  dropped  a  hint 
to  this  effect,  he  laughed. 

"  It  came  to  me  in  a  flash,"  he  explained.  "  It  re- 
minds me  of  the  Golden  Dustman.  He  said  '  Mew 
says  the  cat,  Quack-quack  says  the  duck,  Bow-wow- 
wow  says  the  dog '.  I  think  I  went  one  better  than 
that." 

"  But  where  on  earth  did  your  vernacular  come 
from?" 

"  For  most  of  that  I  was  indebted  to  the  native  who 
repaired  my  bicycle.  When  I  took  it  to  him,  he  said 
the  inner  tube  had  burrust,  and  when  I  got  it  away  he 
said  it  was  a  grrran'  machine." 

Mr.  Fairfield  repeated  this  encomium  with  no  little 
complacency ;  he  knew  what  I  thought  of  the  yellow 
bicycle. 

"  And  how  did  you  receive  that  insult  to  your  intelli- 
gence ?  " 

His  eyes  were  half-shut  as  he  considered  the  question. 

"He  spoke  as  an  expert;  and  he  said  it  was  a  grand 
machine,"  he  answered  meekly. 


CHAPTEK  XIV 
WE  SEE  THE  MANUSCRIPT  OF  "WAVERLEY" 

"  BUT  there  are  three  fireplaces."  This  was  Mr.  Fair- 
field's  first  remark  when  we  visited  the  Parliament 
Hall ;  and  he  made  it  in  a  tone  of  disappointment. 

"  Why  shouldn't  there  be?  "  I  asked. 

He  made  no  answer,  but  pushed  open  a  door  which 
led  to  the  Advocates'  Library,  and  made  a  courteous 
salutation  to  the  official  seated  in  the  ante-room. 

"  I  wish  to  find  out  which  was  the  fireplace  that 
Lockhart  mentions,  the  fireplace  where  Sir  Walter 
used  to  talk  with  the  young  men — was  it  the  middle 
one?" 

"  It  was."  The  official  seemed  to  feel  no  surprise  at 
the  question. 

"  The  mantelpieces,  I  observe,  are  modern ;  are  the 
fireplaces  old  ?  " 

"  They  were  there  in  Sir  Walter's  time." 

"  I  know  the  Courts  are  not  open  now ;  but  can  you 
tell  me  if  he  sat  in  any  of  the  Courts  which  are  still  in 
use?  " 

"  Oh,  yes."     Mr.  Fairfield  bowed  and  shut  the  door. 

"  Lockhart  says  that  the  briefless  barristers  used  to 
congregate  before  the  fireplace  here,  and  that  Sir  Walter, 
who  loved  young  people,  used  to  like  to  join  in  the 
'  roar  of  fun '  on  equal  terms.  It  was  here  " — we  were 
standing  before  the  middle  fireplace  by  this  time — 
"  Scott  got  the  nickname  of  Peveril  of  the  Peak ;  I'll 
show  you  the  story  in  Lockhart,  when  we  get  back. 
Peter  Eobertson — they  called  him  Peter  because  it  wasn't 

186 


MANUSCRIPT  OF  «  WAVERLEY  '     187 

his  name ;  it's  a  sort  of  pet  name  in  Scotland — gave  it 
to  Scott,  and  it  stuck :  he  had  a  forehead,  you  know, 
that  rose  like  a  cliff.  Scott  gave  Peter  a  Roland  for 
his  Oliver,  as  quick  as  lightning ;  and  that  name  stuck 
too.  '  Peter  of  the  Paunch '  was  what  Scott  called 
him.  I'm  afraid  Peter  didn't  get  that  paunch  by  prayer 
and  fasting.  He  was  very  fond  of  his  dinner — at  all 
events  when  he  grew  old." 

"  That's  the  Pleydell  type  of  lawyer,"  exclaimed  my 
friend  a  little  later,  when  we  were  examining  the  por- 
traits and  statues ;  he  was  pointing  to  a  portrait  of  Lord 
Dunsinnan  as  he  spoke.  "  Not  such  a  good  specimen 
as  that  Eaeburn  we  saw  in  the  National  Gallery — Lord 
Newton,  I  mean;  but  it's  the  right  type,  sure  enough." 

"What  a  face  the  other  judge  had!"  he  went  on. 
"  How  Wendell  Holmes  would  have  revelled  in  that 
portrait !  I'd  never  heard  the  man's  name  before  I  saw 
it ;  but  I  felt  sure  he  was  a  personage  of  some  sort — 
somebody  with  a  flavour,  not  a  mere  ordinary,  respectable 
judge.  And  I  was  right.  He's  mentioned  in  '  Romantic 
Edinburgh,'  and  I've  found  something  about  him  in 
Dean  Ramsey.  I'll  run  Lord  Newton  to  earth  as  soon 
as  I  get  back  to  London." 

"  There's  Lord  Braxfield,"  I  said. 

"  Good  heavens !     Is  that  '  old  Braxy '  ?  " 

My  friend  said  no  more,  but  for  a  long  time  he  stood 
before  the  portrait  as  if  fascinated.  I  could  understand 
his  wonder,  for  I  had  heard  some  of  the  stories  that  are 
told  of  Lord  Braxfield ;  and  it  was  a  surprise  to  me  to 
find  him  depicted  as  a  placid  elderly  gentleman,  whose 
countenance  was  bland  even  to  fatuousness,  and  who 
sat  with  his  hands  folded  upon  the  gentle  swell  of  a 
comfortably-filled  waistcoat. 

"  He's  making  up  his  mind  upon  a  case ;  and  he's 
taking  '  a  competent  time,'  "  said  Mr.  Fairfield,  laughing. 
"  He's  mastered  the  facts,  and  now  he  means  to  let 
them  wamble  about  in  his  wame,  with  the  toddy — with 
the  toddy,  mark  you — for  two  or  three  days ;  and  then 


188    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

he'll  give  his  '  ain  interlocutor'.  That  was  Lord  Pol- 
kemmet's  way ;  I  was  reading  about  him  in  Dean 
Bamsey  last  night." 

"  They  were  queer  customers,  those  old  Scottish  law- 
lords,"  he  went  on.  "  I  wonder  if  there's  a  portrait  of 
Lord  Gardenstone  here.  The  Dean  says  that  he  had  a 
pet  pig ;  and  when  it  got  too  big  to  sleep  in  his  lordship's 
bed,  he  used  to  make  up  a  bed  for  it  in  his  own  room 
with  his  own  clothes — not  his  judicial  robes,  you  under- 
stand, but  the  clothes  he  put  on  in  the  morning.  I 
guess  Lord  Mansfield,  over  there,  was  more  careful  of 
that  scarlet  suit  he  looks  so  proud  of." 

"  Do  you  know  much  about  this  Hall? "  I  asked. 

"  No.  I  began  to  read  it  up,  but  I  didn't  get  far. 
I  gave  up  in  despair ;  I  don't  care  to  nibble  at  a  thing ; 
it  would  take  a  week  to  get  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the 
history  of  this  place.  I  know  the  Scottish  Parliament 
used  to  sit  here,  and  that's  about  as  far  as  my  know- 
ledge goes  of  its  historic  past." 

"  Montrose  was  sentenced  here,  wasn't  he?  " 

"  Undoubtedly.  I  know  that,  because  as  a  boy  I 
had  Aytoun's  '  Lays  '  by  heart.  I've  had  fragments  of 
the  '  Execution  of  Montrose '  running  in  my  head  ever 
since  we  saw  that  balcony  at  Moray  House.  There's 
something  in  it  about  Montrose  rising  in  the  middle  of 
this  room — I've  got  it ! — 

It  might  not  be.     They  placed  him  next 

Within  the  solemn  hall 
Where  once  the  Scottish  kings  were  throned 

Amidst  their  nobles  all. 
But  there  was  dust  of  vulgar  feet 

On  that  polluted  floor, 
And  perjured  traitors  filled  the  place 

Where  good  men  sate  before. 
With  cruel  joy  came  Warristoun 

To  read  the  murderous  doom, 
And  then  uprose  the  Great  Montrose 

In  the  middle  of  the  room. 

Those  last  two  lines  have  something  of  Scott's  own 
ring  in  them." 


MANUSCRIPT  OF  "  WAVERLEY  '     189 

In  the  basement  of  the  Advocates'  Library  we  saw 
the  statue  of  Scott,  which  so  justly  bears  the  inscrip- 
tion Sic  sedebat.  We  saw,  too,  the  bound  volume  con- 
taining the  original  manuscript  of  "Waverley".  It 
lay  open  at  the  beginning  of  the  forty-first  chapter — 
" How  do  you  like  him?"  was  Fergus's  first  question 
as  they  descended  the  large  stone  staircase.  "  A  prince 
to  live  and  die  under"  was  Waverley's  enthusiastic 
answer.  It  was  strange  to  read  those  sentences,  lying 
there  just  as  they  had  issued,  fresh-minted  from  Scott's 
brain,  and  to  think  in  how  many  divers  tongues,  and 
by  how  many  printing  presses,  they  had  since  been 
issued  to  the  world. 

"  One  has  heard  so  much  about  the  haste  in  which 
he  wrote  his  novels,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield,  as  he  scruti- 
nized the  manuscript,  "  and  about  his  never  blotting 
anything,  that  one  might  suppose  he  literally  scribbled 
them.  That's  nonsense  ;  no  one  ever  wrote  hastily  in 
a  hand  like  that.  I  daresay  he  left  words  out  here  and 
there,  as  every  one  else  does,  and  didn't  bother  to  read 
his  manuscript  over  before  he  sent  it  off  to  James 
Ballantyne,  to  be  copied  for  the  printer ;  but  he  didn't 
do  his  writing  in  a  physical  hurry,  at  all  events.  The 
mere  manual  part  of  authorship  was  an  easy  business 
with  him ;  but  that  was  because  he  had  the  matter  in 
his  brain,  all  ready  to  be  drawn  off.  He  used  to  talk 
so  lightly  about  his  '  bits  of  novels,'  as  he  called  them, 
that  people  thought  he  just  sat  down  and  scribbled 
them  as  fast  as  he  could  put  pen  to  paper.  They 
didn't  know  that  the  story  in  hand  was  always  sim- 
mering in  his  brain;  never  worrying  him,  but  never 
out  of  his  thoughts  for  five  minutes.  He  says  in  the 
'  Journal '  that  he  composed  hurriedly  ;  and  he  declares 
this  gave  his  books  any  charm  they  possessed.  'I 
have  been  no  sigher  in  shades,'  says  he,  quite  proudly, 
'  no  writer  of 

Songs  and  sonnets  and  musical  roundelays, 
Framed  on  fancies  and  whistled  on  reeds.' 


190    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

Charming  lines,  aren't  they? — not  his  own,  though. 
But  he  smartened  them  up  a  bit,  I  think — that  was  his 
way." 

"  This  manuscript  is  extraordinarily  fair,"  I  observed. 
*'  It's  almost  impossible  to  believe  it's  the  original." 

"  I  don't  know !  When  Dickens  was  young  his 
*  copy  '  was  nearly  as  clean — look  at  the  manuscript  of 
'  Oliver  Twist '.  As  he  got  older  he  took  more  pains 
with  his  sentences,  and  the  manuscripts  got  to  look  like 
fishing  nets.  The  matter  he  had  to  deal  with  had 
altered ;  some  kinds  of  writing  must  take  more  labour 
and  elaboration  than  others.  That  reminds  me,  I  must 
have  a  look  at  the  manuscript  of  the  little  sermon  Mr. 
Grewgious  preached  to  Edwin  Drood  after  the  dinner 
in  Staple  Inn,  when  I  get  back  to  London.  The  whole 
scene  is  one  of  the  subtlest  bits  in  Dickens,  and  I  want 
to  see  it  just  as  he  wrote  it  down.  Now,  Scott  never 
handled  that  sort  of  thing ;  and  he  wasn't  far  off  the 
root  of  the  matter  when  he  wrote  in  his  journal  a 
quotation  from  '  The  Good-natured  Man,'  to  the  effect 
that  one  man  expressed  himself  in  one  way  and  one 
in  another,  and  that  was  all  the  difference  between 
them." 

There  are  some  royal  relics  in  the  dark  underground 
room  which  contains  the  Scott  statue  and  manuscript. 
The  most  interesting  of  these  is  a  little  letter,  which, 
as  a  child,  Charles  I  wrote  to  his  father. 

"  You're  not  trying  to  re-people  the  place,  are  you?  " 
I  asked,  when  we  had  returned  to  the  Parliament  Hall, 
and  my  friend  had  fallen  into  one  of  his  brown  studies, 
as  he  stood  with  his  back  to  the  middle  fireplace. 

"  Oh,  no,  that's  too  big  a  job.  I  was  only  thinking 
that  Scott  must  have  often  been  here  as  a  youth, 
dancing  attendance  on  his  father,  just  as  Alan  Fairford 
danced  attendance  on  his.  And  that  brought  Daddy 
Fairford  and  Peter  Peebles  before  my  eyes — I  daresay 
you  remember  how  minutely  he  describes  their  appear- 
ance— and  I  thought  how  often  Scott  must  have  seen 


MANUSCRIPT  OF  "  WAVERLEY  '     191 

those  two  figures  in  his  mind's  eye  in  this  very  room. 
And  it's  queer  to  picture  Bozzy  at  this  fireplace,  with 
one  of  old  Scott's  briefs  in  his  hand,  and  the  old  man 
in  reverential  attendance  ;  Bozzy  was  a  judge's  son,  you 
know." 

"  Dickens  was  here  in  1841,"  my  friend  went  on. 
"  It  was  here  he  was  introduced  to  Christopher  North. 
I  guess  this  place  is  pretty  crowded  when  the  Courts 
are  sitting ;  but  Dickens  wrote  to  Forster  that  Wilson 
was  slashing  up  and  down,  now  with  one  and  now  with 
another,  and  with  a  shaggy  devil  of  a  terrier  at  his  heels 
all  the  time.  And  Dickens  was  introduced  to  the  very 
Peter  Bobertson  who  had  called  Scott  '  Old  Peveril ' 
at  this  fireplace,  eighteen  years  before.  Dickens  had 
just  got  to  the  top  of  the  tree  when  he  came  to  Edin- 
burgh. He'd  written  '  Pickwick,'  and  '  Oliver  Twist,' 
and  '  Nickleby,'  and  the  '  Old  Curiosity  Shop ' ;  and  he 
wasn't  far  off  the  end  of  '  Barnaby  Kudge'.  It  was 
Jeffrey  who  made  him  come  to  Scotland.  He  put  up 
at  the  Eoyal  Hotel  and  they  nearly  lionized  him  to  death. 
It  was  his  first  experience  in  that  way  on  a  large  scale ; 
but  he  had  plenty  of  it  when  he  went  to  America  next 
year." 

"  You  did  him  right  well,"  I  remarked  admiringly. 
"  I've  read  about  it  in  the  '  American  Notes  ' — and  in 
'  Martin  Chuzzlewit '." 

Mr.  Fairfield  closed  his  left  eye.  "  I  guess  we'll 
smoke  a  pipe  outside,"  said  he ;  "  there's  a  statue  there 
that  oughtn't  to  be  hurried  over." 

We  did  not  forget  to  trace  the  progress  of  Claverhouse 
from  the  Parliament  Hall  to  the  West  Port,  so  far  as 
the  disappearance  of  the  old  West  Bow  would  allow  us. 
In  the  Grassmarket  we  were  looking  at  the  site  of  the 
city  scaffold,  when  one  of  the  miserable  waifs  who  are 
always  hanging  about  the  place  accosted  us. 

"  It's  where  the  great  Montroose  was  hanged,"  said  he. 

"  I  think  it  was  at  the  City  Cross,"  whispered  Mr. 
Fairfield  to  me. 


192    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

The  man  overheard  this,  and  when  he  spoke  again 
there  was  a  dogmatic  tone  in  his  voice  that  would  have 
done  credit  to  a  meenister. 

"  He  was  hanged  here ;  and  the  joodges  watched  him 
from  the  top  of  that  hoose ;  they  sat  there  at  all  the 
executions." 

The  house  he  pointed  to  stood  on  the  north  side  of 
the  Grassmarket,  near  where  the  scaffold  used  to  be, 
and  had  a  flat  roof.  Mr.  Fairfield  withdrew  from  the 
conflict;  there  followed  a  small  transaction  in  silver 
behind  my  back. 

We  went  to  the  Castle  several  times.  On  our  first 
visit  we  saw  the  chamber  over  the  gateway,  where  the 
ninth  Earl  of  Argyle  passed  his  last  night,  the  regalia 
room,  the  Royal  Lodging  and  the  banqueting  hall ;  and 
from  the  King's  Bastion  we  gazed  for  awhile  on  what 
is,  perhaps,  the  grandest  prospect  that  even  Edinburgh 
can  offer.  Mons  Meg  awoke  my  companion's  enthusi- 
asm, because  it  was  Sir  Walter  who  brought  her  back  to 
Scotland ;  but  when  we  entered  St.  Margaret's  Chapel, 
and  he  caught  sight  of  the  photographs  and  other 
rubbishry  that  are  offered  for  sale  therein,  he  waxed 
venomous. 

"  '  The  hand  of  the  diligent  maketh  rich/  "  said  he. 
"  I  guess  that's  a  favourite  text  here  and  in  Shake- 
speare's Church." 

St.  Margaret's  Chapel  is,  the  guide-books  say,  the 
oldest  ecclesiastical  building  in  Scotland  that  bears  a 
roof.  Queens  have  been  its  nursing  mothers ;  it  was 
built  by  Margaret,  wife  of  Shakespeare's  Malcolm,  and 
our  own  Victoria  had  a  hand  in  its  restoration.  It  is 
odd  that  with  such  a  record,  and  standing  in  a  royal 
fortress,  it  should  be  so  degraded. 

On  the  occasion  of  our  last  visit  to  the  Castle,  we 
followed  in  the  wake  of  a  good  Scot  who  was  acting  as 
escort  to  two  English  ladies  well  stricken  in  years.  He 
was  a  spare  man,  inclining  to  threescore,  with  the 
moist  eye  and  bright  complexion  that  my  friend  had 


MANUSCRIPT  OF  "  WAVERLEY  '    193 

so  admired  in  the  portrait  of  Lord  Newton.  The  ladies 
were  painfully  anxious  to  manifest  a  proper  appreciation 
of  all  that  he  showed  them  ;  but  they  were  evidently 
tired-out,  and  their  knowledge  of  Scottish  history  was  of 
the  slightest.  He  was  brimming  over  with  enthusiasm, 
and  his  information  was  so  copious  and  so  admirably 
conveyed,  that  the  temptation  to  listen  when  we  were 
close  to  him  was  irresistible.  I  think  he  saw  we  were 
interested  in  what  he  said,  and  thought  none  the  worse 
of  us  on  that  account. 

In  the  little  panelled  room  in  which  James  I  was  born, 
and  in  the  ante-chamber  adjoining,  we  had  the  benefit 
of  the  stranger's  exposition ;  and  in  the  regalia  room 
we  found  ourselves  again  in  his  immediate  neighbour- 
hood. Here  his  enthusiasm  was  particularly  fervid. 

"  And  what  do  you  say  it  all  is?  "  asked  one  of  the 
ladies,  when,  after  drawing  attention  to  almost  every 
article  behind  the  glass  screen,  he  had  paused  to  take 
breath. 

"  It's  the  regalia — the  Crown  jewels,"  he  answered, 
with  unruffled  politeness. 

"  I  thought  they  were  in  the  Tower." 

"  This  is  the  old  Scottish  regalia.  Our  kings  and 
queens  wore  it  at  their  coronations  before  the  Union." 

"  Oh,  how  interesting !  Then  who  does  it  belong  to 
now?" 

"  The  Government."  He  had  hesitated  a  little  before 
his  answer  as  if  searching  for  a  word  that  his  questioner 
would  understand.  His  choice  did  not  prove  happy. 

"Oh!  the  English  Government."  The  lady  spoke 
with  lively  satisfaction,  and  the  air  of  one  who  had  at 
last  cleared  up  a  misunderstanding. 

He  was  a  charmingly  courteous  and  long-suffering 
cicerone  ;  but  this  was  more  than  he  could  endure. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon — the  British  Government." 

He  spoke  quite  stiffly,  and  as  he  spoke  he  looked  to- 
wards us.  My  friend's  face  was  unmoved,  but  "  some- 
thing eminently  human  beaconed  from  his  eye  ".  The 
13 


194    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

other  read  it  aright,  and  his  momentary  irritation 
melted  into  an  amused  and  tolerant  smile.  When  the 
Scottish  gentleman  spoke  again,  he  took  us,  as  it  were, 
under  his  wing,  and  addressed  his  remarks  as  much  to 
us  as  to  the  two  ladies. 

In  the  regalia  room  stands  the  oak  chest  in  which, 
for  more  than  a  hundred  years  after  the  Union,  the 
Honours  of  Scotland  lay  hidden.  Inspired  by  this,  our 
cicerone  recounted  the  circumstances  under  which  the 
chest  had  been  opened  in  1818  ;  not  forgetting  to  men- 
tion Scott's  horror,  when  on  the  day  following,  one  of 
the  Search  Commissioners  sportively  proposed  to  put 
the  ancient  Scottish  crown  upon  a  young  lady's  head. 

"  I  daresay  you  know  the  story,"  he  added,  courteously 
anxious  not  to  appear  to  be  posing  as  an  instructor,  and 
at  the  same  time  giving  us  a  little  bow. 

Mr.  Fairfield  bowed  in  return.  "  And  I'm  sure  you 
know  how  prettily  it  ends,"  said  he. 

"  Eh  ?  "     The  story-teller  was  evidently  puzzled. 

"  It  was  Mrs.  Lockhart  who  told  the  incident  to  her 
husband.  She  said  that  the  sympathy  which  she 
showed  moved  Sir  Walter  very  much,  and  he  began  to 
treat  her  as  a  woman  from  that  day." 

"  True,  true !  "  There  was  genuine  delight  and 
astonishment  in  the  other's  tone.  "  I  didn't  know  you 
took  such  an  interest  in  Sir  Walter  down  south,"  he 
exclaimed. 

"  My  friend  comes  from  England ;  I  am  an  American 
citizen." 

The  Scottish  gentleman  was  taken  off  his  feet.  The 
clear-cut  sentences  to  which  we  had  been  listening  with 
no  little  admiration  gave  place  to  an  utterance  that  was 
quite  emotional. 

"  That  makes  it  even  more  delightful.  Keally,  really  ! 
— but  there's  the  common  tongue  after  all.  Well, 
well !  We're  all  subjects  of  King  Shakespeare." 

He  said  this  last  with  a  bow  towards  me ;  and  then 


MANUSCRIPT  OF  "  WAVERLEY  '    195 

with  his  moist  eyes  sparkling  and  a  flush  on  his  bright 
face,  he  shook  hands  with  my  companion. 

"  When  he  spoke  of  our  common  tongue,  I  wondered 
what  he  would  think  of  your  vernacular,"  I  remarked, 
as  soon  as  our  friend  had  gone. 

"Law  or  medicine,  say  you?"  was  Mr.  Fairfield's 
only  answer. 

It  was  his  custom  to  speculate  upon  the  probable 
calling  of  any  stranger  with  whom  we  chanced  to  make 
acquaintance. 

"Law,"  said  I,  without  hesitation;  "he's  such  a 
good-looking  chap." 


CHAPTEK  XV 

MR.  FAIEFIELD  MORALIZES  IN  GREYFRIARS 
CHURCHYARD 

No  conscientious  sojourner  in  Edinburgh  misses  the 
Greyfriars  churchyard.  If  the  tourist  be  very  enthusi- 
astic and  exceptionally  well-tochered,  he  will  act  wisely 
in  buying  a  guide-book  of  the  gate-keeper.  This,  we 
were  assured,  was  an  official  work,  and  the  Kirk 
Session  had  fixed  the  price  at  two  shillings.  Even 
under  these  circumstances,  it  is  not,  I  hope,  absolutely 
heretical  to  suggest  that  the  charge  is  somewhat  high. 

Mr.  Fairfield  insisted  on  hunting  out  the  grave  of 
Henry  Mackenzie,  because  he  was  a  friend  of  Sir 
Walter's. 

"Dear,  dear!"  he  said,  when  we  stood  before  it; 
"  he  lived  to  be  over  eighty-five,  and  he  shot  and  fished 
after  a  fashion  down  to  eighty  at  least ;  and  Scott  was 
disabled  at  sixty,  and  Dickens  was  struck  down  at 
fifty-eight,  and  Shakespeare  died  at  fifty-two." 

"  But  do  you  think  longevity  is  a  thing  to  be  desired 
by  an  author — as  regards  his  reputation  after  he  has 
gone,  I  mean?" 

"  Not  extreme  longevity,  certainly ;  it  isn't  in  the 
nature  of  things  that  it  should.  I  can't  think  of  any 
author  who  added  to  his  reputation  after  sixty-five — 
except  perhaps  Tennyson.  I'm  thinking  of  '  Lucknow  ' 
and  'The  Eevenge'." 

"  Not  '  Crossing  the  Bar '  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Ah! — and  he  was  eighty  when  he  wrote  that. 
But  I  doubt  if  it  added  to  his  reputation  in  the  way  I 

196 


GREYFRIARS  CHURCHYARD    197 

mean ;  he  didn't  break  new  ground  in  it.  Now,  those 
two  ballads  are  incomparably  finer  than  anything  else 
he  did  in  the  same  line.  He  wrote  both  of  them  long 
after  sixty,  unless  I'm  mistaken.  Some  of  his  earlier 
ballads  are  almost  poor." 

The  site  of  the  family  grave  of  Sir  Walter's  father  is 
in  Grey  friars  churchyard,  close  to  the  entrance  which 
gives  upon  the  grounds  of  the  Heriot  Hospital. 

"  Sir  Walter  has  been  here,"  said  I. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  several  times.  I  don't  know  how  often  ; 
and  there  are  many  other  graves  here,  which  he  must 
have  stood  at.  His  father  was  in  great  request  for 
funerals,  and  he  liked  to  take  his  son  with  him.  The 
boy  was  not  so  fond  of  the  business  as  the  old  man  was, 
and  he  escaped  it  when  he  could.  I  suppose  most  of 
the  funerals  that  Scott  pere  attended  were  in  this 
churchyard,  or  in  the  Canongate,  and  no  doubt  a  good 
many  of  Sir  Walter's  own  friends  are  buried  here. 
Oh,  yes,  he  must  have  known  every  inch  of  the  place. 
It's  a  pity  the  old  church  where  the  family  used  to 
worship  has  gone.  Don't  let  us  forget  to  hunt  up 
Bluidy  Mackenzie's  mausoleum  before  we  go;  Scott 
knew  where  that  was  when  he  was  a  boy." 

We  had  felt  so  confident,  when  we  entered  the  grave- 
yard, that  we  could  find  all  we  wanted  without  the  as- 
sistance of  the  Kirk  Session's  magnum  opus  that  we 
had  indulged  the  gate-keeper  with  a  little  gentle  satire 
on  the  subject  of  that  volume ;  but  I  am  bound  to  con- 
fess that,  later  on,  we  boggled  for  a  long  time  over  the 
site  of  the  flat  gravestone  on  which  the  people  signed 
the  National  Covenant  in  1638.  We  had  read  in  one 
of  our  guide-books  that  this  stone  belonged  to  the  tomb 
of  a  Boswell  of  Auchinleck,  and  was  still  extant ;  but 
in  or  about  the  right  place,  we  could  find  nothing  but 
the  grave  of  certain  Victorian  Boswells ;  and  here  the 
stone,  though  flat,  was  surrounded  by  a  railing  which 
would  have  driven  an  impatient  signatory  frantic. 

We  were  forlornly  leaning  against  this  barrier,  wish- 


198    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

ing  that  we  had  not  been  so  cutting  about  the  official 
guide,  and  debating  as  to  whether  we  should  eat  the  leek 
in  respect  of  it,  when  a  stranger  took  pity  on  us,  and  ex- 
plained that  the  tombstone  upon  which  we  were  gazing 
was  the  one  we  wanted ;  the  fact  being  that  in  com- 
paratively recent  times  it  had  been  turned  over,  and 
the  upside  inscribed  to  the  honour  and  glory  of  the 
Boswells,  whose  names  we  had  been  studying. 

"  Unless  my  memory  fails  me,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield, 
"  the  Covenant  made  many  turn  their  coats ;  but  I  can 
hardly  believe  it  made  the  Boswells  turn  their  tomb- 
stone. Yet  the  thing  must  have  been  done  on  purpose, 
if  at  all.  No  Scot  could  deny  that  the  stone  on  which 
the  people  signed  the  Covenant  with  their  blood  in 
1638,  had  at  least  an  historical  interest.  What  can  it 
all  mean?" 

"  Perhaps  it  isn't  true,"  I  suggested,  as  soon  as  the 
stranger  had  departed ;  "  I'm  sure  James  Boswell  would 
have  scorned  such  an  act,  little  though  he  may  have 
sympathized  with  the  Covenanters." 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it !  "  was  my  friend's 
verdict. 

We  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  Martyrs'  Monu- 
ment. The  inscription  on  it  tells  the  world  that,  in 
one  way  or  another,  some  eighteen  thousand  of  the 
excellent  of  the  earth  were  murdered  and  destroyed  for 
adhering  to  the  Covenants  and  the  laws. 

"  Are  those  figures  authentic  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Probably  not.  Let's  hope  not !  Let's  hope,  at 
all  events,  that  this  good  blood — I  mean  the  good 
blood  on  both  sides — wasn't  shed  in  vain;  that  it 
helped  the  world  on  somehow." 

"  Troublous  times !  "  said  I  later  on,  when  we  were 
standing  near  that  part  of  the  churchyard  where,  after 
Bothwell  Brig,  so  many  Covenanters  were  penned  in 
under  the  open  sky  for  five  cruel  months. 

"  Horrible !     Horrible  !  " 

"  But  it's  no  good  grieving  over  them,"  my  friend 


GREYFRIARS  CHURCHYARD    199 

went  on  after  a  long  pause.  "  They're  old  unhappy 
far-off  things — they're  nothing  more  now.  As  I  read 
history,  there's  no  moral  to  be  drawn  from  the  doings 
of  either  side — except  this,  perhaps :  every  decent  man 
nowadays  ought  to  make  up  his  mind  he'll  never  directly 
or  indirectly  put  a  strain  on  the  conscience  of  a  fellow- 
creature." 

"Not  a  bad  moral  that,"  said  I;  "not  a  little  one 
either." 

"  No ;  and  perhaps  the  mere  fact  that  folks  like  you 
and  me  can  think  as  we  do  about  it,  shows  that  the 
excellent  of  the  earth  who  died  for  king  or  kirk  in  the 
killing-time  have  helped  the  world  on  a  little,  after  all." 

On  our  first  Sunday  in  Edinburgh  a  drenching  rain 
had  prevented  our  attending  a  place  of  worship.  On 
our  second  Sunday  I  proposed  St.  Giles's,  but  this  was 
met  by  an  objection  on  the  part  of  my  travelling  com- 
panion. He  had  heard,  somewhere,  that  in  the  Pres- 
byterian cathedral  the  psalms  were  sung  and  the  Lord's 
Prayer  chanted ;  and  he  protested  that  he  could  not 
permit  any  one  to  say  the  Mass  at  his  lug.  He  con- 
fessed, afterwards,  that  what  he  really  objected  to  was 
the  singing  of  an  anthem :  not,  as  he  was  careful  to 
explain,  because  he  feared  to  lose  his  voice,  but  merely 
because  that  form  of  devotional  exercise  wearied  him 
beyond  endurance.  In  the  end,  we  decided  in  favour 
of  the  Old  Greyfriars ;  but  on  our  presenting  ourselves 
at  the  doors  we  found  that  during  September  the  even- 
ing service  was  not  held.  In  the  face  of  this  rebuff, 
Mr.  Fairfield  withdrew  his  objection  to  the  cathedral. 

That  was  our  last  night  in  Edinburgh.  Our  pro- 
posed stay  of  two  or  three  days  had  already  extended 
over  a  fortnight ;  and  though  we  would  fain  have  pro- 
longed it  still  further,  this  could  not  be.  Business  de- 
manded my  return  to  London  at  the  end  of  another 
week,  and  to  abandon  Tweedside  altogether  was  out  of 
the  question. 


200    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

" '  To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new,' " 
said  Mr.  Fairfield,  on  our  return  from  St.  Giles's,  as  he 
settled  himself  in  the  big  chair,  with  a  cheerfulness 
that  spoke  of  virtuous  satisfaction.  We  had  obtained 
good  seats  close  to  the  chapel  of  St.  Eloi,  which  con- 
tains the  Argyle  tomb  and  monument,  and  the  service 
had  been  a  short  one. 

"  I  never  thought,  when  we  came  here,  I  should  be 
so  reluctant  to  leave,"  he  went  on.  "  But  then  I  had 
no  notion  of  what  Edinburgh  was  like;  I  don't  believe 
anyone  could  have  a  notion  without  coming  here." 

"A  wonderful  place,"  I  acquiesced. 

"  The  most  wonderful  thing  in  it — or  at  all  events  the 
most  startling  and  unexpected  thing  is  that  Water  of 
Leith.  It's  fine  enough  when  you  see  it  from  the  top 
of  the  Dean  Bridge  ;  but  when  you  go  down  to  it,  and 
find  a  clear  stream  running  by  a  rock  cliff  and  foaming 
over  a  rocky  bottom,  and  you  remember  that  you're  in 
the  heart  of  a  great  metropolis,  it  fairly  takes  your  breath 
away.  Nothing  took  hold  of  me  like  that  river ;  not  the 
Calton,  nor  the  Castle,  nor  Arthur's  Seat." 

"  Not  even  the  Old  Town?" 

"  That  doesn't  appeal  to  the  same  side  of  a  man. 
To  many  men  it  wouldn't  appeal  at  all,  though  it  hit 
me  hard  enough.  I  shall  go  down  to  my  grave  with  a 
feeling  that  the  Fates  ought  to  have  given  me,  when  I 
was  young,  a  year  or  two  in  an  attic  in  one  of  those  old 
houses  in  the  High  Street  that  used  to  look  across  the 
Nor'  Loch  when  they  were  young.  Just  think  of  the 
look-out  there  is  from  them,  even  now." 

"  You  may  think  yourself  lucky  to  have  seen  so  many 
of  the  old  houses ;  they  won't  be  here  for  ever." 

"I  agree;  and,  between  ourselves,  I  wouldn't  stop 
the  improvements  if  I  could." 

"  Yes,  I  mean  it,"  he  protested,  when  he  saw  my  as- 
tonishment. "  I  think  the  authorities  are  doing  a  good 
work ;  and  I  go  with  them.  Of  course,  one  would  like 
to  see  more  of  the  sort  of  thing  that  is  going  on  in 


GREYFRIARS  CHURCHYARD    201 

Kiddie's  Close ;  but  to  expect  restoration  in  that  spirit 
on  a  large  scale  would  be  Utopian.  The  truth  is,"  he 
went  on,  "  I  don't  like  the  look  of  some  of  the  children 
here.  They  come  out  of  insanitary  lairs ;  I'm  sure  of 
it — filthy  lairs,  too.  A  man  must  be  stark,  raving  mad 
if  he  thinks  that  a  little  thing.  No,  no,  I  go  with 
Dickens  in  these  matters,  and  I'm  not  crank  enough  to 
let  my  sentimentalities  lead  me  into  what  I  think  down- 
right bad  citizenship.  I'm  glad  I've  seen  these  old 
houses,  with  their  tablets  and  pious  mottoes ;  but " 

A  wave  of  his  cigar  in  the  air  was  the  only  finish  to 
this  sentence  ;  and  for  a  time  we  both  sat  meditating. 

"  When  I  get  back  to  London,"  said  my  friend,  as 
he  roused  himself  and  began  to  collect  his  books  in 
readiness  for  our  journey  to  Melrose,  "  I  shall  read 
through  all  the  novels  again — all  the  Scottish  ones,  I 
mean.  Heaps  of  things  in  them  will  come  to  me  quite 
fresh,  now  I've  seen  Edinburgh.  I've  re-read  '  Red- 
gauntlet  '  and  '  Guy  Mannering '  since  we  came  here. 

I  shall  tackle  '  Old  Mortality '  next And  that  reminds 

me  of  something  that  happened  when  we  were  in  the 
cathedral  just  now,"  he  broke  off.  "  Have  you  ever 
been  inclined  to  take  a  side  in  the  King  versus  Kirk 
business,  since  we  came  here? " 

He  asked  this  with  so  much  earnestness  that  my 
curiosity  was  aroused. 

"  Have  you?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes.  I  didn't  know  it  till  this  evening  ;  but  when 
I  found  myself  sitting  just  opposite  that  chapel,  and  I 
was  looking  at  the  figure  on  the  tomb,  I  was  conscious 
of  a  sort  of  regret  that  it  wasn't  Montrose.  This  set 
me  wondering,  and  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  I  was 
a  king's  man.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  anything  more 
ridiculous  ?  " 

I  laughed,  but  in  my  own  mind  I  admitted  that  I, 
too,  was  on  that  side ;  though  why  I  could  not  tell. 

"  Perhaps  it  was  only  because  you  liked  Montrose 
better  than  Argyle,"  I  suggested,  to  draw  him  out. 


202    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  No !  that  wasn't  all  of  it ;  though,  of  course,  I  like 
Montrose  best.  Leaving  out  the  question  of  character, 
he  was  picturesque,  and  Argyle  wasn't.  Montrose  was 
a  poet  for  one  thing,  and  then  there's  that  story  about 
him  and  his  hair." 

"I  don't  know  it." 

"  It  was  on  the  morning  of  his  execution.  Warristoun 
went  to  his  cell :  to  make  himself  unpleasant,  I  suppose. 
Montrose  was  combing  out  his  curls. — '  Why  is  James 
Graham  so  careful  of  his  locks  ? '  And  Montrose  smiled, 
and  made  answer,  that  so  long  as  his  head  was  his  own, 
he  meant  to  see  to  it :  when  Warristoun  got  it,  he  might 
deal  with  it  as  he  liked.  That's  the  substance  of  the 
story." 

"  And  a  very  good  story,  too.  It  reminds  me  of  what 
Sir  Thomas  More  said  at  the  scaffold,  when  he  asked 
the  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower  to  see  him  safe  up  the  steps 
— he  promised  to  shift  for  himself  coming  down." 

"  More's  another  of  the  picturesque  figures  of  history," 
said  Mr.  Fairfield.  "  And  he  was  a  poet,  among  other 
things.  But  to  go  back  to  King  and  Kirk,  has  it  ever 
struck  you  that  in  religious  struggles,  both  sides  always 
come  out  on  top  ?  The  loser  gets  as  much  happiness 
as  the  winner,  I  mean." 

"  Even  if  he  loses  his  head?  " 

"  That's  where  the  happiness  comes  in.  He  feels 
sure  he's  going  to  heaven  as  a  martyr,  and  that  makes 
him  and  his  side  happy.  The  other  side  feel  sure  he's 
going  to  hell  as  a  malignant.  That  makes  them  even 
happier.  People  feel  like  that  towards  the  enemy,  when 
they  quarrel  about  religion.  There's  never  a  pin  to 
choose  between  them,  as  regards  ferocity." 

"  Then  why  take  a  side  in  King  versus  Kirk  ?  " 

"  Why,  indeed  ?  I  don't  care  a  puff  of  tobacco  smoke 
about  their  quarrels ;  they  don't  appeal  to  me  at  all.  I 
can't  put  myself  in  sympathy  with  either  party ;  I  simply 
can't  bring  my  mind  into  line  with  theirs.  And  yet  here 
I  am,  with  a  prejudice  in  favour  of  the  king's  side." 


GREYFRIARS  CHURCHYARD    203 

As  he  said  this  he  was  standing  before  the  fireplace 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  He  looked  towards  me 
as  if  inviting  an  explanation  of  the  phenomenon. 

"  It's  the  novels  that  have  done  it,"  said  I. 

"  To  some  extent ;  but  they  don't  explain  it  alto- 
gether. I'll  tell  you  why  it  is — it's  because  the  king's 
side  was  more  picturesque." 

"  Have  you  parried  the  problem  right  through  the 
three  stages  ?  " 

"  I  have  indeed ;  and  I've  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  I'm  no  better  than  the  young  plants  of  grace  in 
'  Bonnie  Dundee '.  It's  the  jack-boots  and  the  plumed 
hats  that  have  captivated  me.  They're  so  bonnie  that 
when  I  see  them  I  wish  them  success." 

"  Perhaps  though,  1  can  hardly  go  so  far  as  to  assert 
that  I  look  couthie  and  slee  while  I  am  doing  it,"  he 
added  with  much  gravity ;  but  as  he  spoke  he  glanced 
at  his  face  in  the  looking-glass,  and  we  both  laughed. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
WE  CROSS  MELROSE  BRIDGE  AND  CLIMB  EILDON 

"  IT  is  perhaps  rather  heavy,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield,  on 
the  morning  of  our  departure  for  Melrose,  as  we  stood 
outside  the  Waverley  station  and  watched  three  porters 
stagger  under  the  weight  of  his  trunk;  "but  it's  so 
convenient  to  have  some  of  your  things  about  you. 
These  men  will  see  to  our  baggage ;  we  shall  have  enough 
to  do  in  seeing  to  the  bicycles." 

The  porters  acknowledged  my  friend's  gratuity  with 
the  usual  touch  of  the  cap,  and  then  intimated  that  we 
must  follow  our  belongings  to  the  weighing-machine. 

"  I  think  they  always  weigh  luggage  here,  when  it's 
to  be  taken  to  certain  parts  of  the  system,"  I  explained  ; 
"  I  heard  some  one  talking  about  it  at  the  hotel."  I 
said  this  without  betraying  the  joy  with  which  my 
heart  sang. 

"A  very  stupid  rule,"  asserted  Mr.  Fairfield;  "it 
must  take  up  so  much  time." 

My  portmanteau  passed  the  test  of  the  machine 
without  question ;  but  when  I  saw  the  big  trunk  put 
on,  and  noticed  the  satisfaction  that  beamed  on  the 
face  of  the  presiding  officer,  I  thought  it  well  to  dis- 
appear with  my  bicycle  round  a  corner. 

In  Mr.  Fairfield's  case  the  weighing  process  certainly 
did  take  a  long  while.  Fortunately  there  was  so  much 
time  to  spare,  that  I  could  wait  for  him  without  im- 
patience. When  he  came  in  view,  he  appeared  to  be 
suffering  under  an  intolerable  sense  of  wrong. 

"  This  is  nothing  less  than  extortion,"  he  protested. 
204 


WE  CLIMB  EILDON  205 

"  It's  what  they  call  a  love  of  thrift,  I  suppose — '  Ou 
ay,  the  Scots  are  close '." 

"  I'm  afraid  Scotland's  in  a  bad  way,"  I  answered 
gloomily. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that? "  There  was  suspicion  and 
no  little  sharpness  in  his  tone. 

"  I  thought  it  might  comfort  you." 

Mr.  Fairfield  made  no  answer,  as  he  stood  with  one 
hand  on  his  bicycle,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  small  yellow 
document  which  he  held  in  the  other. 

"  You  were  talking  about  extortion,"  said  I. 

"  It's  very  near  it,  at  all  events."  He  was  now  get- 
ting past  the  irritable  stage  and  verging  towards  the 
apologetic. 

"  Extortion  is  dishonesty,"  said  I  severely.  "  That's 
one  thing  against  them.  And  we  found  out  yesterday 
that  their  Church  was  in  a  bad  way.  That's  another." 

"  I  only  said  it  seemed  lukewarm." 

"  But  you  wouldn't  say  a  thing  like  that  without 
good  cause." 

"  I  was  disappointed  when  the  man  gave  out  a  Cal- 
vinistic  text,  and  then  didn't  preach  a  word  of  Calvin- 
ism." Mr.  Fairfield  is  a  very  truthful  man,  even  when 
angry ;  and  just  then  he  was  rapidly  recovering  his 
temper. 

"It  was  disappointing, "| I  admitted;  "even  I  felt  a 
little  injured  at  the  time.  But  that  doesn't  exhaust  the 
catalogue  of  their  offences." 

"What  else  is  there?" 

"  The  national  fondness  for  rotten  fruit  is  simply 
deplorable." 

Mr.  Fairfield  laughed.  "  I  wasn't  going  back  to  the 
shop  to  make  a  fuss  about  a  few  cents,"  said  he.  "  I 
was  chaffing  you,  that  time.  Do  you  think  I  didn't 
notice  your  superior  grin?  " 

A  few  days  before,  he  had  bought  a  pound  of  apples 
at  a  grand  establishment  in  Princes  Street.  These, 
upon  the  opening  of  the  bag  later  on,  turned  out  to  be 


206    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

much  decayed ;  and  in  the  first  flush  of  his  resentment, 
my  friend  had  declared  that  a  people  who  could  allow 
such  a  fraudulent  establishment  to  flourish  in  their 
midst,  must  be  ignorant  of  the  difference  between  good 
fruit  and  bad.  He  had  put  aside  my  suggestion  that  he 
should  go  back  to  the  shop  and  complain ;  and  had, 
indeed,  asserted  in  answer  to  it,  that  he  did  not  blame 
the  greengrocer,  as  no  doubt  the  man  had  learned  by 
experience  that  his  customers  preferred  their  apples 
rotten.  A  further  and  more  detailed  scrutiny  of  his 
purchase  had  ended  in  the  bag  and  it  contents  being 
hurled  down  a  close-head,  with  a  muttered  quotation 
from  the  Bard  — "  there's  small  choice  in  rotten 
apples  ". 

"  It's  odd  how  ready  one  is  to  find  fault  with  things 
in  a  strange  place,"  I  said  consolingly.  "  I  hope  you 
didn't  actually  come  to  blows  over  that  weighing- 
machine." 

He  was  quite  himself  by  this  time.  "Oh,  no!  I 
merely  challenged  the  company's  right  to  charge  the 
excess;  and  the  man  produced  a  document,  showing 
what  weight  of  baggage  was  within  the  regulations." 

"  And  after  that  you  had  the  audacity  to  come  to  me 
and  talk  about  extortion — but  what  on  earth  took  up  all 
the  time?" 

"  They  had  to  send  for  some  more  weights."  My 
friend  was  merry  now.  "  I  wish  you'd  hold  the  bicycle," 
he  said  a  minute  later;  "I  was  perhaps  a  little  short 
with  that  official;  I  may  as  well  put  matters  right." 

"  Need  you  bother?  " 

"A  man  ought  to  behave  himself  out  of  his  own 
country,"  said  the  good  patriot,  as  he  moved  off  in  the 
direction  of  the  machine. 

"You've  done  the  handsome  thing,"  I  said  when  he 
came  back.  "  It  really  was  very  irritating.  I  suppose 
the  amount  was  nothing  considerable." 

"  Only  a  few  shillings.  It  wasn't  the  amount,  it 
was  the  wickedness  of  the  thing  that  roused  me." 


WE  CLIMB  EILDON  207 

"  I  almost  wonder  you  didn't  make  a  really  effective 
protest." 

"How  could  I?" 

"  You  might  have  refused  to  let  the  company  carry 
the  trunk  at  all.  You  would  only  have  been  acting 
strictly  within  your  rights  in  so  doing." 

"  That  would  have  been  magnificent !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  They  would  have  lost  the  amount  of  their  unrighteous 
demand,  and  I  should  have  lost  nothing  but  my  clothes 
and  books.  Keally,  one  ought  never  to  stir  a  finger 
without  legal  advice." 

Melrose  was  our  destination,  and  our  train  was  an 
express,  that  ran  to  Galashiels  without  a  stop.  Here, 
however,  there  was  a  longish  wait;  and  my  friend, 
who  had  learned  from  a  native  in  the  carriage  that  we 
had  been  running  through  the  vale  of  the  Gala,  suddenly 
proposed  that  we  should  take  to  the  bicycles  for  the 
four  or  five  miles  that  remained  of  our  journey.  As 
the  morning  was  fine,  I  was  only  too  glad  to  fall  in 
with  this  suggestion.  We  had  no  difficulty  in  finding 
the  road  to  Melrose;  and  we  had  not  been  riding 
many  minutes  when  we  saw  water  below  us  on  the 
right.  We  both  stopped,  almost  involuntarily,  and  at 
the  same  moment ;  for  we  knew  it  was  the  Tweed. 

With  most  of  us,  the  sight  of  some  great,  alien  river, 
familiar  as  a  name  and  nothing  more,  makes  the  heart 
beat  faster ;  but  what  are  the  Abanas  and  Pharpars  of 
the  wide  world  as  compared  with  a  man's  own  Jordan  ? 
In  such  of  us  as  love  Sir  Walter,  the  first  glimpse  of 
his  river  wakes  an  emotion  not  easily  expressed  in 
words ;  for,  be  our  domicile  of  origin  what  it  may,  we 
are  all  Scots  of  the  Border,  as  regards  the  Tweed. 

Not  far  beyond  the  point  where  we  stopped,  a 
tributary  of  the  river  runs  under  the  highway.  We 
made  another  halt  here,  to  lean  upon  the  bridge  and 
look  down  into  the  water.  The  prospect  of  the  Tweed, 
as  seen  through  the  trees  a  little  in  front  of  us,  was 
so  beautiful  that  we  forsook  the  bicycles ;  and  taking 


208    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

advantage  of  a  neighbouring  gate,  we  made  our  way  to 
the  margin.  We  stood  for  some  time  gazing  on  the 
clear,  swift  stream  and  listening  to  its  ripple.  Not  a 
spear's  length  distant,  where  the  current  eddied  round 
a  bank  of  white  pebbles,  a  white-breasted  bird  preened 
its  feathers  and  looked  at  us  askance. 

"Do  you  hear  the  river?"  asked  my  companion, 
almost  in  a  whisper.  "  It  was  the  sound  of  all  others 
most  delicious  to  his  ears.  It  was  murmuring  just  as 
we  hear  it,  when  he  was  dying — seventy-one  years  ago, 
almost  to  a  day." 

On  our  way  back  to  the  road,  we  stayed  for  a  moment 
to  peep  under  the  bridge,  and  wonder  what  the  stream- 
let was  and  where  it  came  from.  We  learned  a  day  or 
two  later,  that  it  was  the  Elwand,  the  burn  that  runs 
through  the  Fairy  Dean,  the  haunted  glen  of  the 
"  Monastery  ". 

When  we  came  to  the  bridge  over  the  Tweed,  Mr. 
Fairfield  showed  signs  of  great  inward  commotion. 
"  If  only  I  had  one  of  the  guide-books  or  even  a  map  !  " 
was  the  burden  of  his  song. 

"  Is  this  Melrose  bridge?  "  he  shouted  to  a  man  in  a 
cart,  whom  we  met  before  we  had  reached  the  other 
side. 

The  answer  was  yes ;  and  almost  before  it  had  been 
uttered,  my  friend  was  off  his  bicycle  and  fumbling  in 
his  pocket-book. 

"  I've  only  a  very  brief  note,  a  mere  outline ;  but  I 
think  it  will  do  for  present  purposes.  I've  been  wonder- 
ing ever  since  we  left  Galashiels  whether  we  were  fol- 
lowing the  road  by  which  they  brought  Scott  home  for 
the  last  time.  And  directly  I  saw  this  bridge,  I  felt 
pretty  sure  that  we  had,  and  that  this  was  Melrose 
bridge." 

His  hands  were  trembling  with  excitement  as  he 
fished  out  a  scrap  of  paper,  and  read  from  it  aloud : — 

"  '  Reached  Newhaven  by  steamboat  late  on  9th  Jidy 
1832 — put  up  at  Douglas's  Hotel,  St.  Andrew's  Square 


WE  CLIMB  EILDON  209 

— 07i  \\th  started  for  Abbotsford — river  being  in  flood 
had  to  go  round  by  Melrose  bridge'  That  means  they 
couldn't  go  by  the  ford,  so  they  had  to  take  this  bridge. 
We've  been  riding  along  the  very  road  by  which 
they  came,"  he  went  on  with  a  catch  in  his  voice. 
"  And  the  way  to  Abbotsford  must  be  somewhere  out 
yonder." 

Without  another  word  he  was  in  the  saddle,  and  the 
yellow  bicycle  was  speeding  onward.  I  lost  sight  of 
him  in  a  moment,  for  the  road  curved  to  the  left  on 
the  other  side  of  the  bridge.  I  mounted  and  followed 
at  a  more  moderate  pace.  A  little  way  beyond  the 
curve,  I  passed  on  my  right  a  cottage  with  a  bright 
garden  in  front  of  it ;  and  a  few  paces  in  advance  I  saw 
my  friend  standing  in  the  road,  staring  hard  at  a  finger- 
post. The  cottage  and  its  garden  were  on  his  right, 
and  I  noticed  that  they  formed  the  point  at  which  the 
road  forked  ;  one  of  the  forks  being  the  way  I  had  just 
traversed.  I  got  off  and  joined  him ;  he  said  nothing, 
but  his  face  was  eloquent  of  great  tidings.  The  ex- 
planation was  not  far  to  seek  ;  for  the  direction  written 
on  that  part  of  the  finger-post,  which  pointed  to  the 
other  fork,  ran  as  follows :  "  Two  miles  to  Abbotsford, 
and  six  miles  to  Selkirk  ". 

"  Are  you  going  to  Abbotsford  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  no !  Not  now  ;  we  shall  have  plenty  of  time 
for  that.  And  besides,  I  want  my  notes." 

We  rode  on,  past  the  old  peel  tower  of  Darnick,  and 
into  Melrose. 

It  is  common  knowledge  that 

the  triple  pride 
Of  Eildon  looks  upon  Strathclyde — 

and  that  at  the  foot  of  Eildon  lies  Melrose.  To  the 
best  of  my  recollection,  only  two  out  of  the  three  peaks 
are  visible  from  the  town  itself. 

It  did  not  take  long  to  pick  up  our  luggage  at  the 
station  and  make  the  necessary  arrangements  at  our 
14 


210    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

hotel.  Mr.  F  airfield's  next  proceeding  was  to  place 
himself  in  the  hands  of  the  local  hairdresser. 

"  You  can  often  get  a  lot  of  information  while  you're 
being  shaved ;  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  shave  myself 
in  a  new  place,"  said  he. 

"  There's  a  suspension  bridge  across  the  river  here," 
he  announced  when  I  next  saw  him ;  "  and  just  above 
that  is  a  dam  called  the  cauld.  It  is  I  suppose  the 
curb  that  was  made  by  Thomas  the  Rhymer's  demon. 
He  was  an  energetic  spirit  and  worried  Thomas  to  give 
him  work.  One  task  Thomas  set  him  was  the  dam- 
ming of  the  Tweed." 

"I  think  that  was  at  Kelso,"  I  remarked  meekly. 
I  had  recently  been  looking  through  the  "  Lay  of  the 
Last  Minstrel ". 

"  I  believe  you're  right,"  said  my  friend,  a  little  sur- 
prised at  my  superior  knowledge.  "  The  barber's 
young  man  says  there's  good  bathing  in  the  river,"  he 
went  on. 

"  At  this  time  of  the  year?  "  I  asked  the  question  in 
some  astonishment ;  for  the  weather  had  for  weeks 
past  been  frigid  and  ungenial. 

"He  said  he  didn't  bathe  himself;  but  he  had  no 
doubt  it  was  all  right" 

"  Are  you  going  to  try  it?  " 

"  It  would  be  pleasant  to  feel  that  one  had  bathed  in 
Scott's  river,"  he  answered  hesitatingly.  "I'thinkI 
shall  see  what  it  looks  like  to-morrow  morning.  The 
sun  to-day  is  quite  hot.  Will  you  join  me?  I  sup- 
pose it  must  be  before  breakfast." 

I  pointed  out  to  Mr.  Fairfield  that  for  me  to  run 
such  a  risk  of  pneumonia  would  be  unfair  to  my  clients ; 
but  I  promised  to  try  to  rise  early  enough  to  witness 
his  ablutions. 

By  taking  the  road  that  goes  under  the  railway 
bridge  and  diving  down  a  passage  that  runs  between 
two  houses,  the  traveller  within  a  few  minutes  of  leav- 
ing the  market-place  of  Melrose,  finds  himself  in  the 


WE  CLIMB  EILDON  211 

open  country  with  the  peaks  of  the  Eildon  Hills 
straight  in  front  of  him.  This  was  the  route  we  fol- 
lowed after  lunch  that  day.  By  the  time  we  stood  on 
the  top  of  the  middle  peak — the  highest  of  the  three — 
we  had  wet  jackets,  but  the  shower  was  over  and  the 
sun  was  shining  brilliantly  on  a  wide  prospect  of  Border 
hills,  range  upon  range  beneath  a  broken  sky.  The 
rain  had  been  heavy  while  it  lasted,  and  it  had  brought 
a  bitter  wind  with  it.  Mr.  F airfield  had  found  com- 
fort in  the  recollection  that  Washington  Irving  had 
been  caught  in  a  similar  shower  when  Scott  showed 
him  over  the  country  in  1817. 

"  Irving  says  that  Scott  thought  nothing  of  the  wet," 
gasped  the  literary  enthusiast,  as  he  struggled  forward 
with  bent  head  and  chattering  teeth ;  "  but  Irving 
didn't  like  it  at  all,  and  for  his  sake  Scott  took  shelter 
under  a  thicket." 

"  He  would  have  been  puzzled  to  find  one  here,"  I 
suggested. 

"  I've  read  somewhere,"  said  my  friend,  as  we  stood 
on  the  summit  in  the  bright  sunshine,  "  that  from  here 
Scott  could  point  out  more  than  forty  spots  famous  in 
Border  history.  I  wish  I  knew  some  of  them.  By- 
the-by,  Washington  Irving  speaks  of  this  country  as 
being  absolutely  treeless.  That's  not  the  case  now." 

"  You  may  depend  upon  it,"  he  went  on,  with  grow- 
ing interest,  "  the  trees  have  been  planted  within  the 
last  hundred  years,  and  the  country-side  owes  a  good 
many  of  them  to  Sir  Walter.  He  was  an  enthusiastic 
planter  himself,  and  he  influenced  his  neighbours  in  the 
same  direction.  I  remember  reading  in  a  book  of  Lord 
Cockburn's  that  till  the  Laird  of  Torwoodlee  began 
planting  on  his  land — Torwoodlee's  somewhere  on  the 
Gala,  quite  near  Abbotsford — there  wasn't  a  tree  to  be 
seen  near  the  house.  That  Laird  was  Scott's  contem- 
porary, but  I  don't  know  whether  Scott  had  a  hand  in 
his  planting." 

On  our  way  down  the  hill,  we  came  upon  a  bed 


212    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

of  heather.  It  was  past  its  prime,  but  we  hailed  it 
with  enthusiasm.  On  our  walk  to  Koslin  we  had  seen, 
in  the  distance,  the  sun  shining  on  heathery  slopes  of 
the  Pentlands ;  but  this  Eildon  heather  was  the  first 
we  had  handled  in  Scotland. 

"  The  Macphail  in  Mr.  Pinero's  '  Cabinet  Minister' 
says  that  heather  is  poor  walking ;  I'm  inclined  to  agree 
with  him." 

We  were  negotiating  a  particularly  steep  part  of  the 
descent  when  Mr.  Fairfield  made  this  remark ;  and  as 
he  spoke  he  slipped  upon  a  concealed  boulder.  He  went 
down  with  some  force,  and  there  was  a  look  of  agony 
upon  his  visage  as  he  rose  to  his  feet,  but  his  literary 
ardour  was  unquenchable. 

"  Scott^told  Washington  Irving  that  if  he  didn't  see  the 
heather  at  least  once  a  year,  he  thought  he  should  die," 
remarked  the  sufferer,  as  he  rubbed  the  point  of  impact. 

"  We'll  have  a  look  at  the  river  before  we  go  back  to 
the  hotel,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  we  had  regained  level 
ground.  "  There  must  be  a  fine  view  from  the  suspen- 
sion bridge.  The  young  man  at  the  barber's  said  the 
cauld  was  quite  close  to  the  bridge." 

Just  above  the  cauld  the  river  bank  rises  to  a  con- 
siderable height,  and  its  face  between  the  water  and 
the  summit  is  thickly  grown  with  trees  and  bushes. 
This  high  ground  is  known  as  the  Weirhill.  There 
are  some  seats  at  the  top,  and  we  were  glad  to  rest 
ourselves  and  admire  the  prospect.  Behind  us,  a  green 
slope,  on  which  stood  the  parish  church,  led  down  to 
the  high  road. 

"  Some  old  ecclesiastic  said  that  though,  no  doubt, 
God  could  have  made  a  better  berry  than  the  straw- 
berry, He  never  did,  in  fact,  make  a  better,"  observed 
Mr.  Fairfield  after  a  long  silence.  "  '  The  bearing  of 
this  observation  lays  in  the  application  on  it,' "  he 
added,  turning  to  see  if  I  had  caught  his  meaning. 

"  I  certainly  cannot  imagine  anything  more  beauti- 
ful," I  admitted. 


WE  CLIMB  EILDON  213 

Looking  Tweedward,  across  the  fresh  green  of  the 
trees,  there  was,  that  sunny  afternoon,  a  view  of  hill 
and  river  softer  and  more  alluring  than  anything  we 
had  seen  in  Scotland.  Southward,  beyond  the  church 
spire,  rose  the  dour  outline  of  the  Eildons. 

"  The  weather  is  certainly  settling;  this  sun  is  quite 
hot.  I  think  I  shall  venture  on  a  bath  to-morrow." 

So  said  my  companion,  as  he  stretched  himself 
luxuriously  on  the  seat,  and  watched  'the  thin  blue 
smoke  that  rose  straight  up  from  the  tip  of  his  cigar. 
He  had  forgotten  that  icy  shower  on  the  hills. 

"  This  is  a  lovely  river,"  he  went  on;  "I  never  ex- 
pected to  see  anything  like  this.  It's  so  clear,  for  one 
thing." 

"And  it's  so  swift,"  I  chimed  in,  with  a  fervour 
equal  to  his  own. 

Mr.  Fairfield  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  jerk,  and  stared 
downward  upon  the  current ;  no  mere  curiosity  or 
admiration  could  account  for  the  intensity  of  his 
gaze. 

"  This  cauld  can't  be  the  work  of  the  demon  who 
'  bridled  the  Tweed  with  a  curb  of  stone,'  "  I  continued, 
in  meditative  accents.  "  It's  made  of  wood.  Did  you 
see  those  rusty  nails  sticking  up  in  it?  " 

"  I  did  not  observe  them."  He  said  this  with  a  fine 
carelessness ;  but  the  muscles  of  his  face  twitched. 

"  I  remember  now,  that  young  man  told  me,  the  best 
bathing  place  was  about  a  hundred  yards  above  it,"  he 
observed,  after  he  had  reseated  himself.  His  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  troubled  water  just  below  the  dam  as  he 
spoke. 

"  That  seems  reasonable.  Did  he,  by-the-by,  ask 
you  at  what  hour  you  proposed  to  bathe?  " 

"  I  believe  I  said  about  eight  o'clock.  Do  you  sup- 
pose he  had  any  motive  in  asking?"  My  friend  was 
evidently  growing  suspicious  of  the  young  man. 

"  Oh,  no.  I  daresay  he  only  wanted  to  bring  a  few 
of  his  friends  to  admire  your  swimming." 


214    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

The  prospect  of  having  an  assemblage  to  witness 
his  feats  of  natation  seemed  to  give  Mr.  Fairfield  no 
pleasure. 

"  I  shall  not  bathe  to-morrow,  anyhow,"  he  said 
shortly. 


CHAPTEK  XVII 
MELROSE  ABBEY  AND  SIR  WALTER'S  GRAVE 

DURING  our  stay  at  Melrose  we  paid  several  visits  to 
the  Abbey.  We  both  agreed  that  the  place  was  some- 
thing of  a  disappointment. 

"I  suppose  I  expected  too  much,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield 
one  morning  when  we  had  the  ruin  to  ourselves,  and  he 
had  ventured  to  rest  himself  upon  the  stone  which  is 
pointed  out  as  Scott's  favourite  seat;  "  Sir  Walter  did 
so  much  to  save  the  place,  and  he  was  so  enthusiastic 
over  it,  and  one  had  heard  so  much  about  its  exquisite 
beauty  that,  after  all,  a  little  disappointment  isn't  to  be 
wondered  at." 

"  I  certainly  think  we've  heard  a  little  too  much  about 
the  carvings,"  I  observed. 

"  Oh,  yes.  They're  wonderful,  I  daresay ;  particularly 
wonderful  considering  their  age,  but  that  minute  work 
doesn't  appeal  to  me.  When  I'm  told  that  a  place  is  a 
superlatively  beautiful  ruin  I  expect  something  super- 
latively beautiful  as  a  whole.  Now,  to  my  sweet,  un- 
learned eye  this  ruin  looks  a  bit  heavy.  I've  stared  at 
it  from  every  point  of  view,  and  I  think  it  looks  heavy 
from  all  of  them.  I'm  only  an  ignorant  Philistine ; 
but  give  me  Dry  burgh,  say  I." 

In  the  churchyard  which  adjoins  Melrose  Abbey  my 
friend  spent  a  long  time  in  meditation  before  the  tall 
red  stone  that  marks  Tom  Purdie's  grave.  The  inscrip- 
tion which  Scott  wrote  is  so  beautiful  that  I  cannot 
refrain  from  setting  it  out  in  its  entirety : — 

215 


216    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

In  grateful  remembrance  of  the  faithful  and  attached  services 
of  twenty-two  years,  and  in  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  a  humble  but 
sincere  friend,  the  stone  was  erected  by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Bart,  of 
Abbotsford.  Here  lies  the  body  of  Thomas  Purdie,  wood-forester 
at  Abbotsford,  who  died  29th  October  1829,  aged  sixty-two  years. 
"  Thou  hast  been  faithful  over  a  few  things,  I  will  make  thee  ruler 
over  many  things."  Matthew,  Chap.  XXV.,  v.  21. 

"  '  A  humble  but  sincere  friend,'  "  quoted  Mr.  Fair- 
field  approvingly.  "  Yes,  that  was  well  deserved. 
Scott  treated  all  the  humble  folk  about  him  as  if  they 
were  his  blood  relations ;  but  there  was  only  one  Tom 
Purdie.  Whenever  you  think  of  Scott  out  of  doors  at 
Abbotsford,  there's  always  Purdie  somewhere  near  him 
with  his  plaid.  His  death  was  a  sore  blow.  It  came 
at  a  time  when  Scott  could  ill  afford  to  lose  a  friend. 
He  was  drawing  near  his  own  end  in  October,  1829. 
Only  a  few  months  before,  he'd  had  a  serious  warning 
of  apoplexy;  and  no  wonder!  Ever  since  the  crash 
he'd  been  working  like  a  galley  slave  to  pay  off  his  debts 
— killing  himself,  in  fact.  For  ten  years  Tom  Purdie's 
shoulder  had  been  a  support  to  him  when  they  went 
about  the  estate  together.  There's  a  pretty  passage  in 
Lockhart  about  it.  He  says  it  was  easy  to  see  that  the 
man's  heart  swelled  within  him  from  the  moment  the 
Sheriff  got  hold  of  his  collar.  Scott  was  fortunate  in 
at  least  two  of  his  retainers — Tom  Purdie  and  Willie 
Laidlaw.  Laidlaw  was  a  very  different  stamp  of 
man;  but  I'm  sure  he  wouldn't  have  resented  being 
called  a  retainer.  And  there  was  that  good  servant 
Nicolson,  the  valet  who  was  with  Sir  Walter  at  the 
end." 

Melrose  churchyard  has  many  associations  with  Sir 
Walter.  Of  the  "names  he  loved  to  hear"  that  are 
now  carved  upon  the  tombs  of  this  churchyard,  Tom 
Purdie's  is  only  one  of  many ;  on  every  hand  we  came 
across  inscriptions  referring  to  Scott's  contemporaries. 
Still  extant  is  the  little  tombstone  bearing  the  poetical 
epitaph  of  which  he  is  said  to  have  been  so  fond : — 


MELROSE  ABBEY  217 

The  earth  goeth  on  the  earth, 

Glistring  like  gold, 
The  earth  goes  to  the  earth 

Sooner  than  it  wold ; 
The  earth  builds  on  the  earth 

Castles  and  towers ; 
The  earth  says  to  the  earth, 

All  shall  be  ours. 

"  I  came  across  that  in  some  book  about  Scott,  years 
ago,"  said  my  friend.  "  It  stuck  in  my  memory,  more 
or  less,  and  I  recognized  it  when  I  came  across  it  again 
in  the  '  Life '  of  Grimaldi,  the  clown.  It  was  put  upon 
his  first  wife's  tombstone — at  her  own  wish." 

"  How  came  she  to  know  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  can't  imagine.  Perhaps  it's  to  be  found  elsewhere 
than  in  this  graveyard.  Her  version  was  a  little  differ- 
ent, by-the-by.  It  was  odd  for  a  young  woman  to 
have  such  a  fancy  for  the  lines.  She  was  only  five-and- 
twenty  when  she  died — that  was  in  eighteen  hundred." 

On  one  of  our  visits  to  the  Abbey  we  fell  in  with  the 
custodian;  and  for  more  than  an  hour  he  sauntered 
about  with  us,  pointing  out  choice  bits  of  the  fabric, 
and  drawing  attention  to  matters  of  interest  in  the 
churchyard.  We  were  tolerably  familiar  with  the  ex- 
cellent little  guide-book  which  is  his  handiwork,  but 
we  soon  discovered  that  he  had  not  put  into  it  a  tithe 
of  what  he  knew  about  his  charge. 

Mr.  Fairfield  was  eager  to  ascertain  if  the  neighbour- 
hood contained  any  old  people  who  remembered  Scott. 
Our  guide  could  name  several  old  standards  who  pro- 
fessed to  remember  the  funeral ;  but  he  was  doubtful 
whether  any  one  still  living  could  claim  to  have  known 
Sir  Walter.  He  told  us,  however,  that  a  man  named 
William  Millar,  who  died  in  the  spring  of  1902,  aged 
101,  had  often  seen  him,  and  had  been  intimate  with 
Tom  Purdie.  This  patriarch  survived  his  friend  by 
more  than  seventy  years,  but  in  the  churchyard  they 
now  sleep  almost  side  by  side. 

"  I  wish  Lord  Cockburn  could  have  seen  our  friend," 


218    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

said  Mr.  Fairfield  after  the  custodian  had  left  us.  "  In 
reference  to  these  very  ruins  he  made  a  complaint  about 
the  persons  who  watched  over  such  places  in  Scotland 
in  his  time,  and  he  wondered  if  there  would  ever  be  an 
improvement.  I  wish  he  could  have  seen  the  custodian 
at  Roslin  too." 

"  What  had  Lord  Cockburn  to  complain  of  here?  " 
"  He  didn't  like  Johnny  Bower's  appearance.  He 
said  he  had  a  very  whiskified  visage.  Even  in  his  pri- 
vate diary  a  judge  mustn't  condemn  a  fellow-creature  on 
such  evidence  as  that;  so  Cockburn  said  that  for  all 
he  knew  Johnny  might  be  a  teetotaler.  But  it  cer- 
tainly was  the  face  that  shocked  his  sense  of  propriety. 
He  complained  that  Johnny's  language  was  more  in- 
flated than  correct ;  but  he  couldn't  have  thought  that 
mattered.  Washington  Irving  says  the  man  wore  a 
blue  coat  and  a  red  waistcoat.  Perhaps  Lord  Cockburn 
thought  he  ought  to  have  worn  wig  and  gown." 
"  Johnny  Bower  was  here  in  Scott's  time  ?  " 
"  Oh,  yes !  I  expect  Scott  got  him  his  billet.  Wash- 
ington Irving  has  a  lot  to  say  about  him.  It  was  Scott's 
son  Charles  who  brought  Irving  here  and  introduced 
him  to  Bower.  The  little  man  was  one  of  Scott's  most 
fervent  worshippers.  He  was  a  perfect  Durdles  in  his 
knowledge  of  the  nooks  and  corners  of  this  place.  Scott 
used  to  get  a  lot  of  fun  out  of  him.  One  of  Johnny's 
theories  was  that  the  Abbey  looked  better  by  the  light 
of  a  candle  than  by  the  light  of  the  moon ;  and  he  used 
to  insist  that  in  order  to  get  a  really  perfect  view  by  day- 
light, a  man  must  turn  his  back  to  the  ruins,  and  stoop 
down  till  his  head  was  between  his  knees." 

"  I  thought  that  was  Johnny's  grave  when  I  first 
came  on  it,"  continued  Mr.  Fairfield,  pointing  to  a 
tombstone  a  few  feet  distant  from  us,  "but  the  age 
puzzles  me.  The  John  Bower  of  the  inscription  died 
in  1843  aged  fifty-eight.  Now,  Washington  Irving 
speaks  of  the  Johnny  Bower  of  1817  as  an  old  man. 
If  that's  right,  this  can't  be  he ;  and  yet  Lord  Cock- 


SIR  WALTER'S  GRAVE  219 

burn  in  1840  spoke  of  the  Johnny  Bower  of  that  time 
as  having  been  custodian  here  for  forty  years.  I  wish 
I'd  thought  to  ask  our  friend  to  clear  up  the  mystery." 

Dryburgh  Abbey  lies  within  a  pleasant  walk  of  Mel- 
rose.  The  wise  pedestrian  will  strike  off  the  main 
road  at  the  beginning  of  Newtown  St.  Boswells  and 
make  his  way  to  the  back  of  the  Dryburgh  Hotel,  and 
along  the  very  Scottish  village  street  that  leads  to  the 
burn.  Once  in  the  glen,  the  path  to  the  high  bank, 
which  overlooks  the  suspension  bridge,  cannot  be 
missed.  The  Abbey  lies  within  a  few  hundred  yards 
of  the  other  side  of  this  bridge. 

As  we  were  passing  the  cottages  that  cluster  near 
the  entrance,  a  fat  ancient  collie  strolled  out  into  the 
pathway,  and  came  up  to  us  wagging  his  tail.  Mr. 
Fairfield  gave  him  a  welcome  that  was  almost  effusive. 

The  old  Abbey  of  Dryburgh  was  a  fabric  of  vast  ex- 
tent. Its  site  is  now  a  region  of  green  lawns,  bowery 
with  foliage,  but  its  ruins  are  still  fringed  by  some  of 
the  ancient  yews,  which  the  monks  planted  in  the  days 
of  its  magnificence.  We  were  told  that  one  of  these 
trees  was  700  years  old. 

St.  Mary's  aisle,  which  formed  a  part  of  the  abbey's 
north  transept,  now  stands  wholly  detached  and  partly 
ruinous.  Behind  the  railing  which  protects  the  front, 
Sir  Walter  and  his  wife  lie  under  a  double  tombstone. 
Their  son,  the  second  baronet  and  his  wife,  and  also 
Lockhart  rest  by  them.  The  two  Scott  graves  lie 
from  left  to  right ;  Lockhart's  is  beside  them  with  the 
foot  towards  the  railing.  The  three  tombs  are  close 
together,  and  they  occupy  the  whole  floor  of  the  aisle. 
Lockhart's  inscription  is  as  follows  :  "  Here,  at  the  feet 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  lie  the  mortal  remains  of  John 
Gibson  Lockhart,  his  son-in-law,  biographer  and 
friend.  Born  14tth  June  1794.  Died  25th  November 
1854." 

After  we  had  examined  the  tombs,  we  strolled  for  a 
time  about  the  ruins ;  and  then  returning  to  St.  Mary's 


220    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

aisle,  we  seated  ourselves  upon  a  stone  coffin,  a  few 
paces  in  front  of  it.  It  was  a  bright  warm  afternoon. 

"  That  '  Here,  at  the  feet  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,'  is 
very  touching,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield.  "  Dean  Kamsey 
tells  of  an  old  Scottish  servant,  who  said  to  her  master 
when  she  was  dying :  '  Laird,  will  ye  tell  them  to  bury 
me  whaur  I'll  lie  across  at  your  feet?'  I  wonder  if 
Lockhart  ever  heard  it ;  it  was  his  wish  that  he  should 
lie  at  Sir  Walter's  feet.  The  last  utterance  but  one 
that  he  records  of  Scott,  was  that  admonition  to  him- 
self to  be  a  good  man — '  My  dear,  be  a  good  man — be 
virtuous — be  religious — be  a  good  man.  Nothing  else 
will  give  you  any  comfort  when  you  come  to  lie  here.' 
When  Scott  spoke  of  lying  here,  he  meant  on  his  death- 
bed :  but  the  words  may  have  had  a  fuller  significance 
to  the  other  when  his  own  time  came,  for  he  died  at 
Abbotsford  in  the  very  next  room.  I've  read  Mr. 
Lang's  '  Life,'  and  I  think  Lockhart  might  fairly  com- 
fort himself  with  the  thought  that  he  had  been  a  good 
man.  There  are  some  parts  of  the  '  Life '  that  only 
a  good  man  could  have  written." 

"  That  eldest  son  died  at  forty-five,"  he  went  on. 
"  He  was  a  good  man,  too.  How  proud  Sir  Walter 
was  of  him,  and  of  Lockhart  as  well !  He  wasn't  over- 
fond  of  the  weedy  type  of  humanity.  I  suspect  Frank 
Osbaldistone  was  his  favourite  hero.  I've  often  thought 
it  was  Lockhart's  good  looks  that  made  Sir  Walter  take 
to  him.  He  seems  to  have  been  extraordinarily  beauti- 
ful in  his  youth,  and  he  was  a  good  horseman,  and  took 
his  part  in  all  the  Abbotsford  sports.  He  was  only  sixty 
when  he  died.  They  say  he  smoked  too  much — but 
they  say  that  of  everybody  who  smokes  at  all." 

Mr.  Fairfield  bent  a  loving  glance  on  a  big  black  cigar 
that  he  was  preparing  to  light,  as  he  uttered  this. 

"  There's  a  passage  in  one  of  Dickens'  letters  about 
Lockhart  that  I've  often  puzzled  over,"  he  resumed,  as 
soon  as  the  cigar  was  in  full  blast.  "  They  were  both 
in  Italy  not  long  before  Lockhart  died,  and  years  after- 


SIR  WALTER'S  GRAVE  221 

wards,  d  propos  of  some  paper  for  '  All  the  Year  Round,' 
Dickens  wrote  that  Lockhart  had  been  anxious  to  see 
him  in  Rome,  and  as  they  walked  together  there, 
Dickens  knew  very  well  that  Lockhart  knew  very  well 
why.  Lockhart  was  dying  then.  Dickens  said  in  the 
letter,  that  he  was  the  ghost  of  the  handsome  man  he 
had  first  known  when  Scott's  daughter  was  the  head  of 
his  house ;  and  that  he  had  little  more  to  do  with  this 
world  than  she  in  her  grave,  or  Scott  in  his,  or  small 
Hugh  Littlejohn  in  his.  I  can't  imagine  why  Lockhart 
was  so  anxious  to  see  Dickens,  and  Mr.  Lang  throws 
no  light  on  it.  There  had  been  a  review  of  '  Pickwick  ' 
in  the  '  Quarterly '  which  had  displeased  Dickens'  ad- 
mirers, because  it  had  a  sting  in  its  tail,  but  that  can't 
have  had  anything  to  do  with  it ;  for  not  long  afterwards, 
Dickens  dined  with  Lockhart  at  George  Cruikshank's  : 
and  a  very  friendly  article  on  '  Oliver  Twist '  followed 
this.  It  was  Scott's  influence  that  got  Lockhart  the 
editorship  of  the  '  Review '.  Scott  had  to  fight  hard ; 
for  Lockhart  had  made  enemies.  He  had  a  pretty  turn 
for  sarcasm,  and  when  he  went  for  a  man,  he  cut  to  the 
quick." 

"  How  came  Lockhart  to  die  at  Abbotsford  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  think  his  daughter  owned  it  then,  under  the  second 
baronet's  will.  All  of  Scott's  children  were  dead  by 
that  time,  and  only  Mrs.  Lockhart  had  had  children. 
When  Lockhart  died,  there  were  no  descendants  of  Sir 
Walter  in  existence  except  Lockhart's  daughter  and 
her  baby  daughter,  Monica.  Lockhart  seems  to  have 
been  very  fond  of  that  granddaughter.  There  are  re- 
ferences to  her  in  some  of  the  letters  set  out  in  Mr. 
Lang's  book." 

"  I  suppose  Sir  Walter  was  here  when  his  wife  was 
buried?" 

"Oh,  yes !  There's  an  entry  in  the  '  Journal '  about 
it.  He  speaks  of  consigning  the  remains  to  the  very 
spot  which  in  pleasure  parties  they  had  so  often  visited. 
I  fancy  Lady  Scott's  funeral  was  a  quiet  affair.  Dean 


222    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

Ramsey  was  the  minister.  Sir  Walter's  funeral  was 
almost  regal.  The  country  people  were  nearly  all  in 
black.  There  was  a  large  escort  of  yeomanry  and  a 
string  of  carriages  more  than  a  mile  long.  Lockhart 
says  that  when  the  coffin  was  taken  from  the  hearse, 
a  deep  sob  burst  from  a  thousand  lips.  He  was  one  of 
the  pall-bearers.  The  coffin  was  carried  to  the  hearse, 
and  from  the  hearse  to  the  grave,  by  Sir  Walter's 
foresters  and  old  servants.  They  had  petitioned  that 
there  might  be  no  hireling  assistance.  Scott  was  Sheriff 
of  Selkirkshire ;  and  a  little  time  before  his  death  your 
Parliament  had  to  make  a  law  appointing  a  deputy. 
I've  often  meant  to  ask  you  to  show  me  that  law." 

On  my  return  to  Gray's  Inn  I  looked  up  the  Act  re- 
ferred to.  It  is  intituled  "  An  Act  to  authorize  His 
Majesty  to  appoint  a  person  to  act  as  Sheriff  of  Selkirk- 
shire during  the  incapacity  of  the  present  Sheriff". 
Scott  was  dead  and  buried  before  it  was  passed.  It 
begins  :  "  Whereas  the  Sheriff  of  the  County  of  Selkirk 
in  Scotland  is  incapacitated  by  disease  from  performing 
any  of  the  functions  of  his  office  or  appointing  any  sub- 
stitute for  their  due  performance".  I  wondered,  as  I 
read  the  Act,  how  many  of  the  persons  who  came  upon 
it  in  the  Statutes  at  Large  for  the  last  year  of  George  IV, 
know  that  the  sheriff  referred  to  was  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

We  had  many  opportunities,  during  our  stay  at  Mel- 
rose,  of  studying  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  tourists 
who  made  that  town  their  headquarters  for  exploring 
the  Scott  country.  Nine  out  of  ten  of  these  visitors 
were  Americans.  The  general  programme  was  as 
follows  :  an  early  morning  train  brought  in  a  party  from 
across  the  Border,  sometimes  with  a  guide,  sometimes 
without.  A  scamper  through  the  abbey  ruins  was  the 
beginning  of  the  day's  sight-seeing.  Upon  this,  followed 
a  jolt  to  Abbotsford  in  a  brake.  Lunch  was  the  next 
item  ;  and  another  brake-ride  having  disposed  of  Dry- 
burgh,  the  pilgrims  were  ready  for  a  train,  taking  them 
on  to  Edinburgh  in  time  for  dinner. 


SIR  WALTER'S  GRAVE  223 

One  morning  our  breakfast-table  was  honoured  by 
the  presence  of  a  young  American  who  had  actually 
spent  a  night  in  the  hotel.  He  discovered  Mr.  Fair- 
field's  nationality  in  no  time,  and  he  soon  made  it  plain 
that,  in  his  opinion,  Melrose  ought  to  think  herself 
fortunate  in  having  two  such  lords  of  human  kind 
within  her  borders.  I  could  make  allowances  for  him, 
when  I  learnt  from  his  outpourings,  that  he  had  been 
travelling  about  for  more  than  two  years.  The  globe- 
trotter whose  progress  is  one  untiring  rush,  comes  into 
communication  with  nobody  but  guides  and  hotel- 
servants  ;  and  as  a  result  he  moves  in  an  unchanging 
atmosphere  of  homage  and  subservience.  Under  the  cir- 
cumstances a  man  who,  in  his  own  country,  has  always 
been  treated  as  of  no  account,  is  apt  to  lose  his  head. 

Unconscious  of  the  tortures  that  he  was  inflicting 
upon  Mr.  Fairfield,  our  fellow-guest  made  himself  very 
offensive  to  the  waiter.  My  poor  friend  strove  to  con- 
ceal his  agonies,  but  at  last  the  provocation  waxed  too 
strong  for  endurance.  When,  for  about  the  tenth  time, 
our  neighbour  wanted  something  not  on  the  table, 
his  call  met  with  no  response ;  for  the  man  was  busy, 
attending  to  someone  else.  A  repetition  of  the  sum- 
mons, conveyed  in  a  voice  that  made  several  breakfasters 
glance  over  in  our  direction,  drew  from  the  victim  a 
look  and  a  gesture  that  were  an  appeal  for  mercy.  The 
next  instant  the  whole  room  was  disturbed  by  the 
violent  clattering  of  a  teaspoon  on  a  saucer.  The 
waiter  was  at  our  table  in  a  flash ;  and  in  another  flash 
he  had  disappeared  to  execute  the  order. 

"  I  guess  we'll  get  this  fixed  up  now,  right  away," 
drawled  our  neighbour,  as  he  turned  to  his  fellow- 
countryman  for  sympathy  and  applause. 

Mr.  Fairfield  fixed  him  with  a  stare  that  would  have 
frozen  the  blood  of  an  ordinary  Christian ;  and  without 
shifting  his  gaze  he  rose  to  his  full  height.  The  next 
moment  he  had  turned  upon  his  heel  with  a  jerk,  and 
had  stalked  out  of  the  room. 


224    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"Old  man  shirty!"  was  the  surprised  comment, 
addressed  to  me.  The  offender  was  disposed  to  treat 
the  incident  as  a  joke. 

I  tackled  him  at  once  with  professional  suavity. 

"  My  friend  is  an  American.  I  don't  mind  what  you 
say  or  do;  but  I'm  an  Englishman.  He's  sensitive  on 
the  subject  of  his  country." 

This  shook  the  Huron,  and  he  blushed. 

"Hadn't  you  better  go  and  apologize  to  him?"  I 
suggested,  as  I  took  up  the  '  Scotsman ' ;  "  you  can't 
apologize  to  the  whole  room." 

I  preferred  to  keep  my  head  behind  the  newspaper, 
until  I  heard  my  fellow-guest  depart.  It  was  not 
necessary  to  keep  it  there  for  long. 


CHAPTEK  XVIII 
WE  CLIMB  SMATLHOLM  TOWER 

"  THEBE  are  some  folks  who  ought  to  be  kept  at  home 
by  force  for  their  country's  good,"  quoth  Mr.  Fairfield, 
when  I  joined  him  in  our  own  room. 

"  I  had  a  turn  at  him  after  you  had  gone." 

"I  heard  you;  I  was  listening  at  the  door."  My 
friend  grinned  as  he  made  this  confession.  "  Your 
magnanimity  when  you  intimated  that  an  apology  to 
the  whole  room  might  be  dispensed  with  nearly  doubled 
me  up." 

"I  burned  to  avenge  you,"  I  explained.  "I  was 
thinking  of  what  I  suffered  years  ago.  You  know  the 
Invalides  in  Paris,  I  suppose  ?  " 

My  friend  nodded. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  tomb  of  Napoleon,  there?" 

"  Right  well ;  it's  the  most  impressive  thing  in 
Paris." 

"  So  everybody  thinks.  Well,  there  were  several  other 
visitors  when  I  was  there.  We  had  all  taken  our  hats 
off.  It's  the  rule  ;  but  even  if  it  wasn't,  I  think  every- 
body would  do  it.  The  place  is  simply  overwhelming. 
Presently  a  party  of  English  tourists  filed  in.  They 
were  a  shady  lot,  but  every  hat  went  off,  except  one. 
An  attendant  noticed  this  hat,  and  whispered  something 
to  the  guide  in  charge  of  the  party.  He  whispered 
something  to  the  man  with  his  hat  on.  '  What ! ' 
croaked  the  brute — you  know  the  Cockney  trick  of 
sticking  out  the  underlip  and  turning  up  the  nose  when 
15  225 


226    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

you  want  to  be  offensive.  '  What ! — take  off  my  'at  to 
a  blankety  carcase  ?  Not  me ! ' ' 

"  I  don't  think  we  shall  meet  our  young  friend  at  the 
tower,"  remarked  Mr.  Fairfield  as  we  were  spinning 
along  on  our  bicycles  that  morning ;  "  it's  a  bit  too  far 
off  for  a  young  gentleman  in  a  hurry." 

We  were  on  our  way  to  Sandyknowe,  to  see  the 
region  where  Sir  Walter  spent  so  much  of  his  early 
childhood.  We  bowled  along  famously  until  we  got 
within  half  a  mile  of  our  destination ;  but  the  by-road 
that  led  to  the  farm-house  grew  somewhat  villainous  as 
we  neared  our  goal.  I  rode  warily,  but  Mr.  Fairfield 
took  the  ruts  as  he  found  them.  With  his  enthusiasm 
fairly  ablaze,  the  machine  might  play  cup  and  ball  with 
him  if  it  would ;  and  no  groaning  of  the  saddle  springs 
could  make  him  uneasy. 

"  This  must  be  the  road  the  child  came  by,"  he  ex- 
claimed exultingly,  as  he  bumped  up  to  my  side; 
"  there's  no  other  that  leads  to  the  place.  His  grand- 
father lived  there  ;  and  he  went  to  stay  with  him,  be- 
cause it  was  hoped  that  country  air  would  do  him  good. 
He  was  only  three  when  he  first  came,  and  he  was 
here  a  good  deal  till  he  was  eight.  Now,  I've  no  doubt 
he  was  taken  by  coach  from  Edinburgh ;  and  someone 
from  the  farm  met  it  at  a  cross  road,  just  as  Tom  Pinch 
met  the  Pecksniffs  when  they  came  back  from  London. 
I  daresay  the  vehicle  was  only  a  farm  cart — farming 
folk  were  simple  enough  in  1774." 

"  His  grandfather  would  have  been  a  fool  to  risk 
anything  better  on  this  road,"  was  my  comment. 

"  We  know  from  the  miniature  we  saw  in  Edin- 
burgh what  he  was  like  at  six,"  he  went  on,  "  and  we 
know  he  was  almost  a  cripple  when  he  first  came  here. 
He  must  have  been  driven  along  this  road  many  a  time. 
I'll  be  bound  he  often  held  the  reins  when  he  grew  a 
little  bigger.  You  know  how  important  a  child  looks 
when  he's  allowed  to  drive.  Some  youngsters  are 
pretty  free  with  the  whip,  too — not  out  of  vice  but  out 


SMAILHOLM  TOWER  227 

of  thoughtlessness — but  I  don't  think  Walter  Scott 
was  ever  one  of  them.  It  was  on  the  farm  here  that 
he  got  his  extraordinary  love  of  animals.  His  great 
friend  amongst  the  farm  servants  was  the  cow-bailie, 
who  had  charge  of  the  sheep.  The  man  used  to  carry 
him  astride  on  his  shoulder.  The  child  loved  to  lie 
about  the  grass  all  day  long  in  the  midst  of  the  flock  ; 
and  this  fellowship  gave  him  an  affection  for  sheep  and 
lambs  that  lasted  all  his  life." 

Sandyknowe  farm  stands  on  the  edge  of  a  stretch  of 
broken  heathland,  prodigal  of  furze  and  tall  thistles, 
and  with  the  grey  rock  outcropping  everywhere.  The 
present  house  is  a  substantial  stone  building,  sheltered 
on  two  sides  by  trees.  The  road  to  the  waste  behind 
runs  between  the  house  and  the  farm  buildings.  Full 
in  sight,  and  not  a  bow-shot  distant,  is  Smailholm 
tower,  standing  four-square  upon  a  high  platform  of 
solid  rock. 

On  the  border  of  the  waste  land  we  left  our  bicycles 
to  look  after  themselves  and  continued  our  way  on  foot. 

"  Just  think  what  a  place  this  must  have  been  to  a 
child !  "  said  my  friend,  as  for  the  twentieth  time  he 
checked  at  a  cluster  of  harebells  or  a  nodding  spray  of 
late  foxglove.  "  In  his  eyes  it  must  have  seemed  as 
vast  as  the  great  globe  itself." 

The  next  instant  Mr.  F  airfield  was  on  his  knees  at 
the  base  of  a  huge  fragment  of  rock,  which  rose  moss- 
grown  and  weather-stained  from  a  peaty  hillock. 

"  What  are  these  ?  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  They're  wild  pansies." 

He  produced  a  penknife  and  did  some  uprooting  with 
a  tender  hand. 

"  Pansies  are  for  thoughts,"  said  he,  putting  the 
plants  into  his  cigar  case,  and  filling  it  up  with  their 
native  soil.  "  We  must  hope  that  these  will  survive  a 
voyage  across  the  Atlantic.  I  have  more  than  one 
friend  in  Chicago  who  will  be  glad  to  get  a  pansy  root 
from  the  Sandyknowe  Crags.  Do  you  remember  the 


228    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

story  about  the  lightning?  The  child  was  lying  out 
here  one  day  when  a  thunderstorm  came  on.  He'd 
been  forgotten ;  and  when  his  aunt  remembered  him, 
and  rushed  out  to  bring  him  home,  she  found  him  lying 
on  his  back,  clapping  his  hands  at  the  lightning,  and 
crying  out  '  Bonny,  bonny ! '  at  every  flash.  This  tower 
can't  have  altered  much  since  Scott  was  a  child.  It 
looks  as  much  a  work  of  Nature  as  the  rock  itself." 

To  our  great  joy  we  found  the  door  unfastened.  By 
the  light  of  a  match  or  two  we  groped  our  way  up  the 
worn  stairs,  and  passed  out  on  to  the  roof.  Between  us 
and  the  farm-house  lay  a  sheet  of  water,  full  of  reeds, 
and  vocal  with  the  cry  of  wildfowl.  In  the  opposite 
direction,  across  a  long  stretch  of  open  country  inter- 
sected by  hedges,  rose  the  triple  peak  of  the  Eildons. 

"  It's  a  wonderful  prospect,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield,  as  he 
took  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  country.  "  Scott  laid  the 
scene  of  his  '  St.  John's  Eve  '  in  this  tower.  When  the 
Baron  of  Smailholm  came  to  the  lady  of  the  ballad,  she 
was  looking  out  of  a  window  : — 

He  passed  the  court-gate,  and  he  oped  the  tower -gate, 

And  he  mounted  the  narrow  stair, 
To  the  bartizan  seat,  where,  with  maids  that  on  her  wait, 

He  found  his  lady  fair. 
The  lady  sat  in  mournful  mood  ; 

Looked  over  hill  and  vale  ; 
Over  Tweed's  fair  flood,  and  Mertoun's  wood, 

And  all  down  Teviotdale. 

When  Scott  was  six  they  gave  him  a  pony  no  bigger 
than  a  Newfoundland  dog.  He  had  grown  robust  by 
then,  and  the  lame  leg  didn't  interfere  with  his  horse- 
manship. We're  told  he  used  to  frighten  his  aunt 
Jenny  by  cantering  over  the  rough  places  near  this 
tower.  And  I'll  be  bound  it  didn't  prevent  him  clamber- 
ing about  this  roof.  When  he  grew  a  bigger  boy  he 
could  climb  like  a  wildcat.  In  a  note  to  '  Eedgauntlet,' 
he  says  he  used  to  climb  the  '  kittle  nine-steps '  of  the 
Castle  rock.  They  were  so  precarious,  that  the  root  of 


SMAILHOLM  TOWER  229 

a  nettle,  which  grew  within  reach  of  one  of  them,  was 
thought  a  wonderful  help.  Even  as  a  man  of  fifty  he 
wasn't  afraid  of  a  bit  of  climbing.  When  the  preserva- 
tion of  the  ruins  at  Melrose  was  in  progress,  he  wrote 
to  Lord  Montague  that  he  meant  to  get  on  to  the  roof 
and  see  for  himself  how  things  were." 

"  I  think  I  should  like  to  see  how  things  look  from 
there,"  added  Mr.  Fairfield,  pointing  to  the  peak  of  the 
tower's  roof ;  and  in  another  minute  he  had  scrambled 
over  the  stone  slabs  and  was  sitting  upon  it.  Though 
the  climb  was  a  short  one  and  was  not  dangerous,  it 
was,  for  a  man  of  my  friend's  age,  an  enterprise  of  great 
pith  and  moment.  Fired  by  his  valorous  example,  I 
followed  and  seated  myself  beside  him. 

"  Scott  never  lost  his  interest  in  this  place,"  he  re- 
sumed. "  He  knew  well  enough  that  if  he  hadn't  lived 
at  Sandyknowe  there  would  have  been  no  poems  or 
novels.  I  suppose  he'd  have  died  a  judge — as  it  was, 
he  could  have  done  so  if  he'd  chosen.  And  I  daresay 
he'd  have  lived  to  be  old ;  but  just  think  of  what  litera- 
ture would  have  lost,  without  his  work." 

"  Some  modern  writers  say  that  his  novels  are  too  dull 
for  modern  readers ;  and  as  for  the  poems,  they're  too 
unspeakable  to  be  mentioned,"  I  observed. 

Mr.  Fairfield  laughed.  "  It's  the  old  story — '  some 
folks  like  parritch,  and  some  folks  like  paddocks'. 
And  I  daresay  the  smart  young  gentlemen  who  sample 
our  novels  for  us  haven't  read  much  of  Scott.  How 
can  a  poor  devil,  who  has  to  look  through  a  mountain 
of  trash  every  week  of  his  life  be  expected  to  read  any- 
thing at  all  ?  The  mere  sight  of  a  printed  page  must 
be  nauseous  to  him.  And  yet,  how  can  any  intelligent 
man,  no  matter  how  young  he  is,  sniff  at  Scott's  novels  ? 
Just  take  '  Ivanhoe,'  for  instance.  A  man  can  read  it 
all  his  life  ;  and  he'll  find  it  as  good  at  eighty  as  it  was 
at  ten.  I've  been  reading  it,  man  and  boy,  for  more 
than  forty  years.  Leslie  Stephen  says  somewhere  that 
the  beginning  is  the  best  opening  of  a  story  ever  written. 


230    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

There's  a  curious  anecdote  about  '  Ivanhoe  '  in  Payn's 
'  Literary  Becollections '.  I've  got  the  book  at  the  hotel. 
He  and  three  friends  once  agreed  that  each  should  write 
down  on  a  piece  of  paper  his  favourite  incident  in  fiction, 
and  two  out  of  the  four  chose  the  scene  where  the  Dis- 
inherited Knight  enters  the  lists  at  Ashby  and  strikes 
Bois  Guilbert's  shield  with  the  sharp  end  of  his  spear." 

"  I  rather  think  I  should  have  given  my  vote  for 
something  Dalgetty  says  or  does,"  said  I. 

"  If  ever  I  come  across  any  one  sniffing  at  Scott,  I 
comfort  myself  with  a  story  about  Thackeray.  He  told 
a  brother  novelist,  it  wasn't  seemly  to  speak  of  Scott 
as  an  equal.  '  Such  men  as  you  or  I  should  take  off 
our  hats  at  the  very  mention  of  his  name,'  was  what 
Thackeray  said.  And  yet,  if  some  critics  are  to  be  be- 
lieved, nobody's  read,  or  deserves  to  be  read  nowadays, 
except  the  popular  idol  of  the  moment.  But  this  only 
means,  that  those  who  read  his  masterpieces  don't  read 
Scott,  or  Thackeray,  or  Dickens,  or  Fielding — or  even 
Macaulay,  for  that  matter." 

"  I  wish  Scott  and  Macaulay  had  met,"  he  resumed. 
"  I  know  they  were  in  hostile  camps,  in  a  sense,  for  the 
'  Edinburgh  '  and  the  '  Quarterly '  men  didn't  mix  well. 
But  I  don't  think  that  need  have  made  any  difference 
with  those  two." 

"  Perhaps  not — before  the  Eeform  question  grew 
acute,"  I  admitted. 

"  There  seems  to  me  to  have  been  something  about 
both  of  them  different  from  other  authors.  And  they 
seem  to  me  so  much  alike  at  bottom.  They  were  both 
men  of  the  world ;  but  that's  not  all  I  mean.  There 
was  a  certain  spaciousness  about  their  outlook  on  the 
world." 

"That,"  said  I,  "is  easily  explained;  they'd  both 
been  through  the  legal  mill." 

"  There  may  be  something  even  in  that,"  he  ac- 
quiesced. "  I've  often  wished  they'd  met,  say  at  any 
time  between  1823  and  1829.  Macaulay  admired 


SMAILHOLM  TOWER  231 

Scott's  writings,  but  he'd  no  sympathy  with  certain 
aspects  of  his  character.  That  was  why  he  refused  to 
review  the  '  Life '  in  the  '  Edinburgh  '.  Macaulay 
hadn't  read  the  full '  Journal ' ;  so  he  didn't  know  Scott 
as  his  friends  knew  him  and  we  know  him.  I  feel  sure 
the  two  would  have  hit  it  off  all  right  if  they  had  met. 
They  were  both  so  full  of  common-sense  and  so  full  of 
fun.  I  wouldn't  have  had  them  meet  at  Abbotsford ; 
the  outdoor  sports  and  the  dogs  would  have  bored 
Macaulay.  They  would  have  got  on  better  in  Castle 
Street.  I  was  pleased  to  come  across  Macaulay  in  that 
panorama  of  Scottish  worthies  on  the  staircase  of  the 
National  Portrait  Gallery  at  Edinburgh.  I  don't  think, 
by-the-by,  the  artist  had  dressed  him  quite  as  Trevelyan 
describes  him." 

"  How  was  that  ?" 

"  He  went  about  in  new,  dark  kid  gloves,  with  his 
fingers  only  half-way  down  the  finger-stalls,  and  he  had 
an  inexhaustible  succession  of  embroidered  waistcoats. 
Trevelyan  says  he  used  to  regard  them  with  much 
complacency.  It's  a  blessed  thing  when  a  biographer 
isn't  afraid  to  put  in  a  little  touch  like  that.  Waistcoats 
were  important  things  fifty  or  sixty  years  ago.  I'm 
glad  we  don't  have  to  bother  about  them  now." 

"  A  month  or  two  before  Scott,  in  his  decay,  went 
abroad  as  a  last  hope  of  getting  well,  he  came  here,"  he 
went  on.  "  He  made  a  last  visit  to  many  of  his 
favourite  spots.  There's  a  beautiful  bit  in  Mr.  Lang's 
book  about  Lockhart's  description  of  these  visits,  and 
certain  other  things  that  happened  when  Sir  Walter 
was  failing.  Mr.  Lang  says,  it  surpasses  all  achieve- 
ments of  biography  and  has  no  rival  except  the  most 
exalted  poetry.  He's  right,  too.  Let's  go  back  to 
Dry  burgh,  and  have  another  look  at  the  ruins.  It  was 
there  the  lady  of  Scott's  ballad  ended  her  days.  I  think 
we  shall  find  a  road." 

"  Scott  professed  to  have  always  hated  cats  till  he 
grew  oldish,"  said  Mr.  Eairfield,  in  our  room  that  even- 


232    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

ing,  as  he  put  down  '  Humphrey  Clinker,'  and  stroked 
the  hotel  tabby,  which  had  followed  him  in  and  was  rear- 
ing himself  up  to  be  petted.  "  In  some  letter  or  other 
which  he  wrote  when  he  was  almost  fifty,  he  says  he 
used  to  detest  them  ;  and  he  speaks  of  his  having  taken 
to  liking  them,  as  a  sign  that  he  was  growing  old.  I 
think  he  only  meant  he  usen't  to  care  for  them  in  the 
way  in  which  he  always  loved  dogs.  Lockhart  says 
that  the  old  tom-cat,  Hinse  of  Hinsfeldt,  used  to  sic  on 
the  top  step  of  the  ladder  in  the  study  at  Castle  Street ; 
and  whenever  Maida  left  the  room,  Hinse  used  to  come 
down  from  his  perch  and  take  Maida's  place  by  the 
footstool.  And  Washington  Irving  has  a  lot  to  say 
about  the  cat  he  saw  at  Abbotsford.  Scott  told  him  a 
good  cat  story  there,  db  propos  of  a  remark  that  cats 
were  a  mysterious  kind  of  folk,  and  there  was  more 
passing  in  their  minds  than  people  knew  of.  He  said 
that  some  poor  man  met  one  night  in  a  lonely  place  a 
funeral  procession  of  cats,  all  in  mourning ;  and  the 
corpse  was  a  cat  in  a  coffin  covered  with  a  black  velvet 
pall.  When  he  got  home,  he  told  his  wife  and  children ; 
whereupon  his  own  black  cat  raised  himself  from  his 
place  by  the  fire  and  exclaimed,  '  Then  I'm  the  king  of 
the  cats,'  and  vanished  up  the  chimney." 

As  my  companion  told  this  anecdote,  he  kept  his  eye 
on  his  tabby  friend.  The  animal,  however,  affected  to 
take  no  interest  in  it.  Mr.  Fairfield  stroked  its  head  as 
he  went  on — "  I'm  a  judge  of  cats  myself,  and  I  under- 
stand something  about  them.  This  now,  is  a  mouser, 
and  isn't  much  given  to  being  petted.  He's  what  Sir 
Walter  would  have  called  '  a  tolerably  convertible  cat'. 
I  prefer  the  sleek  type  myself ;  but  it's  a  greater  honour 
to  be  taken  up  by  one  of  the  hunting  sort." 

"  I  suppose  you  were  thinking  of  Sir  Walter  when 
you  made  such  a  fuss  over  that  old  dog  at  Dryburgh, 
the  other  day,"  said  I. 

"  True,  O  king !  I  thought  how  he  would  have  re- 
ceived him.  He  would  have  called  him  '  poor  boy,'  and 


SMAILHOLM  TOWER  233 

asked  after  his  rheumatism.  When  Maida  was  very  old, 
Scott  used  to  stroll  to  his  quarters  at  the  back  of  the 
house,  and  condole  with  him  upon  being  '  so  very  frail ' ; 
and  when  Scott  was  at  Naples  in  the  spring  before  he 
died,  we  hear  of  his  talking  to  a  dog  of  Sir  William 
Gell's ;  and  still  later  we  hear  of  his  telling  a  big  Danish 
dog  at  Bracciano  near  Rome,  that  he  was  glad  to  see 
him,  and  that  he  had  a  larger  dog  at  home.  '  I  find 
my  dogs'  feet  on  my  knees,  I  hear  them  whining  and 
seeking  me  everywhere,'  he  wrote  in  the  '  Journal,' 
when  he  saw  ruin  before  him,  and  had  to  face  the 
prospect  of  giving  up  Abbotsford ;  and  down  to  the 
very  end  of  his  life  we  hear  about  them.  When  he  left 
home  for  the  last  time,  there  were  repeated  instructions 
to  Laidlaw  to  be  very  careful  of  the  dogs,  and  every 
letter  to  him  from  abroad  had  something  about  them 
and  the  poor  people.  And  when  Scott  came  home, 
and  the  sight  of  the  place  brought  back  a  gleam  of 
memory  to  his  sick  brain,  he  sobbed  and  smiled  over 
his  dogs  when  they  came  up  and  fawned  on  him." 

There  was  a  suspicious  catch  in  Mr.  Fairfield's  voice 
when  he  came  to  this,  and  he  stopped  abruptly. 

"  It  wasn't  only  dogs  or  cats  he  was  fond  of,"  he 
resumed  in  his  usual  tone  ;  "it  was  all  dumb  animals. 
A  few  months  before  he  went  abroad  for  the  last  time, 
he  roused  himself,  failing  though  he  was,  and  in  fear 
that  he  was  losing  his  memory,  when  he  saw  a  carter 
ill-treating  a  horse.  The  man  was  insolent ;  and  Sir 
Walter  comforted  himself  with  the  reflection  that 
though  he  was  powerless  in  Lanarkshire,  in  Selkirk, 
where  he  was  sheriff,  such  a  thing  wouldn't  happen 
without  punishment.  Tennyson  hit  the  right  nail  on 
the  head  when  he  called  him  a  true  gentleman,  heart, 
blood  and  bone.  It's  a  poor  verse,  but  I  like  it : — 

0  great  and  gallant  Scott, 

True  gentleman,  heart,  blood  and  bone, 

1  would  it  had  been  my  lot 

To  have  seen  thee,  and  heard  thee,  and  known. 


234    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

I  don't  wonder  at  any  man  wishing  he'd  seen  Scott. 
I've  often  wished  it  myself.  It  would  have  been 
enough  to  get  even  a  peep  at  him — just  a  glimpse  as  he 
went  by  with  Tom  Purdie  and  the  dogs." 

I  was  tempted  to  remark  that  the  addition  of  some 
thirty  years  to  my  friend's  age  would  be  a  high  price  to 
pay  for  such  a  recollection  as  this ;  but  he  had  spoken 
so  wistfully  that  I  turned  my  eye  in  his  direction  be- 
fore mocking  him.  He  was  lying  back  in  his  chair, 
with  one  leg  thrown  loosely  over  the  other,  and  the  cat 
purring  on  his  knee.  Under  the  gaslight,  his  grey  hair 
with  a  bit  of  a  wave  in  it,  gleamed  almost  silvery,  as 
he  lay  meditating ;  his  hands  crossed  behind  his  head, 
and  a  look  of  peculiar  gentleness  upon  his  upturned 
face.  I  held  my  tongue ;  and  the  thought  crossed  my 
mind  that,  if  Scott  could  have  seen  him  at  that  mo- 
ment, his  heart  would  have  warmed  towards  the  pil- 
grim from  Chicago. 

"By-the-by,"  he  said  to  me,  as  we  were  parting  for 
the  night,  "  I  think  I  shall  venture  on  that  bath  to- 
morrow morning;  I  found  out  at  the  barber's  to-day 
that  the  shop  opens  at  eight,  and  the  young  man's 
always  there  first;  the  proprietor  told  me  so." 

I  was  in  my  tub  next  morning  when  I  remembered 
Mr.  Fairfield's  parting  words.  The  water  was  so  cold 
that  the  mere  thought  of  bathing  in  the  Tweed  made 
my  teeth  chatter.  I  dressed  hastily,  and  sallied  forth 
to  the  Weirhill.  On  warm  mornings  it  was  our  custom 
to  take  a  stroll  before  breakfast  on  that  high  ground ; 
when  the  weather  was  less  genial  we  chose  the  passage 
which  skirts  the  south  side  of  the  abbey  churchyard. 

On  my  way  up  the  hill,  I  saw  my  friend's  figure  upon 
the  summit.  He  was  standing  in  a  meditative  attitude, 
gazing  across  the  river.  He  turned  when  he  heard  my 
footstep  behind  him.  I  noticed  that  his  grey  jacket 
was  buttoned  over  a  protuberance,  which  indicated  the 
harbourage  of  some  foreign  matter.  I  could  guess  what 
that  bulge  meant. 


SMAILHOLM  TOWER  235 

"  You  have  been  quick,"  said  I. 

"  I've  not  been  in  yet,"  he  answered  placidly.  "  I 
suppose  you're  quite  surprised?" 

I  was  not  prepared  to  tell  a  lie  of  the  necessary  magni- 
tude ;  so  I  said  nothing. 

"  I  went  down  to  the  bank  and  had  a  look  at  it,"  he 
went  on,  "  but  the  grass  was  too  wet.  My  clothes 
would  have  been  soaked  if  I'd  put  them  down." 

"  Why  not  put  your  towel  under  them  ?  " 

"  How  could  I  dry  myself  with  a  wet  towel?  " 

I  am  no  match  for  Mr.  Fairfield  at  this  kind  of  poker ; 
and  the  gravity  with  which  he  asked  his  question  was 
so  impenetrable  that  I  nearly  threw  up  my  hand.  By 
an  effort,  however,  I  managed  to  keep  on. 

"When  I  was  a  boy,"  I  observed,  "we  used  to  dry 
ourselves  by  running  about." 

My  friend  looked  down  towards  the  water  and  took 
a  relishing  sniff  of  the  morning  air.  The  breeze  had  a 
fine  edge  on  it  just  then ;  it  was  raw  as  well  as  cold. 

"  I  never  thought  of  that,"  he  said  drily.  "  It's  a 
great  pity  !  This  zephyr  would  have  done  the  business 
in  no  time." 

A  mental  picture  of  the  good  man,  careering  up  and 
down  the  valley  without  his  clothes,  was  too  much  for 
me.  When  I  laughed,  he  laughed  too. 

"  I  hadn't  the  courage  to  venture  in,"  he  said. 
"  When  I  left  the  hotel,  I  felt  a  deal  of  doubt  about  it ; 
so  I  didn't  parade  my  traps  " — here  he  patted  the  region 
of  his  bosom, — "  and  when  I  got  down  to  the  water  I 
soon  made  up  my  mind.  I  must  put  this  bathing  into 
my  chest  of  might-have-beens." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

WE  RAMBLE  ABOUT  THE  RHYMER'S  GLEN  AND  FIND 
THE  EILDON  STONE 

"  I  FEEL  a  malignant  satisfaction  in  the  thought  that 
those  flying  tourists  can't  get  here,"  my  friend  re- 
marked one  morning,  as  we  strolled  along  a  farm  road 
which  led,  we  were  assured,  to  the  foot  of  the  Rhymer's 
Glen.  "  So  far  as  I  can  make  out,  no  one  can  see  it 
without  some  walking." 

"  That's  hard  on  the  infirm,"  said  I  virtuously. 
"  Are  we  on  the  Abbotsford  estate  yet?  " 

"  I'm  not  sure.  We're  quite  close  to  the  glen,  and 
at  one  time  Scott  owned  that ;  but  according  to  the 
map  in  my  edition  of  the  '  Journal,'  it  doesn't  belong 
to  the  estate  now." 

"  I  was  wondering  if  he  planted  these  trees." 

"  I  think  we  may  assume  he  did ;  they  look  to  me 
about  the  right  age." 

The  day  was  bright  and  sunny,  but  a  great  deal  of 
rain  had  fallen  in  the  night :  and  when  we  came  to  the 
glen  everything  was  glittering  with  moisture.  No  pen 
can  describe  the  place  as  we  saw  it  that  morning,  with 
the  beech  boughs  meeting  overhead,  and  with  the  full 
song  of  the  burn  in  our  ears.  The  linked  sweetness  of 
the  Rhymer's  Glen  is  long  drawn  out ;  and  no  words  of 
mine  can  bring  before  the  eye  the  beauty  that  it  wears. 

"  Every  able-bodied  person  who  came  to  Abbotsford 
was  taken  through  here." 

Mr.  Fairfield  said  this  after  we  had  reached  the  little 
bridge  above  the  waterfall.  We  had  not  exchanged  a 

236 


THE  RHYMER'S  GLEN  237 

word  since  we  began  the  ascent.  "  I  don't  wonder 
Scott  was  proud  of  it.  He  used  to  tell  people  that 
Tweedside  was  a  '  liveable  country '.  How  he  must 
have  laughed  to  himself  over  the  adjective !  " 

"  If  we'd  seen  nothing  else,  since  we  left  London, 
but  this  glen  and  the  view  from  the  Weirhill,  I  don't 
think  we  could  say  we'd  done  badly,"  was  my  admission. 

"  Washington  Irving  came  here  with  Scott  and  the 
dogs.  How  easy  it  is  to  picture  Scott  on  his  own  land  ! 
He  wore  a  green  jacket  and  white  trousers.  Washing- 
ton Irving  said  they  were  brown,  but  that  was  one  of 
his  blunders."  My  friend  spoke  of  his  countryman 
with  some  irritation. 

"  That  was  careless  of  Washington,"  said  I. 

"  They  were  undoubtedly  white,"  persisted  Mr. 
Fairfield ;  "  and  they  were  shortish,  and  he  wore  brown 
spats  and  shoes.  Tom  Purdie's  rig-out  was  the  same 
as  his  master's.  Lady  Scott  used  to  hand  over  the 
things  to  him  when  she  thought  them  too  shabby  for 
Scott.  It's  not  difficult  to  fancy  Sir  Walter  stumping 
along  these  paths  with  his  guests,  and  telling  them  the 
legends  of  the  countryside.  He  knew  all  the  ballads 
too ;  and  he  loved  to  repeat  scraps  of  them.  He  used 
to  laugh  at  himself  for  it.  'If  you  like  a  walk,  I  will 
bestow  my  tediousness  on  you  at  such-and-such  an  hour,' 
was  his  form  of  invitation  to  a  guest.  But  I  don't  think 
he  ever  recited  a  line  of  his  own." 

"  That  was  a  very  excellent  thing."  I  said  this  with 
a  recollection  of  our  first  night  in  Edinburgh  in  my 
mind ;  and  I  spoke  with  great  conviction. 

"  True  !  I  confess  I  shuddered  more  than  once  when 
I  read  Tennyson's  '  Life '.  He  seems  to  have  been 
very  ready  to  oblige  with  readings  from  his  own  works. 
Just  fancy  having  to  sit  out  the  whole  of  '  Maud,'  or 
the  '  Ode  on  the  Duke  of  Wellington  ' !  It  would  have 
given  me  the  fidgets." 

"  Those  green  jackets  must  have  been  almost  uni- 
versal for  country  wear  at  one  time,"  he  went  on.  "  We 


238    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

read  that  it  used  to  be  thought  something  of  a  distinc- 
tion for  a  man  to  wear  one  in  court,  under  his  gown, 
if  he  was  going  to  leave  Edinburgh  when  the  court 
rose.  It  showed  he  was  a  laird  as  well  as  a  lawyer. 
Scott  was  one  of  the  last  to  exercise  the  privilege.  He 
seems  to  have  worn  that  jacket  even  in  London.  When 
he  called  at  Charles  Mathews'  house  in  Lisle  Street, 
Leicester  Square,  to  ask  him  to  lunch  with  Lord  Byron, 
Mrs.  Mathews  was  surprised  to  see  him  wearing  a  dark 
green  coatee,  single-breasted,  something  like  a  squire's 
hunting  jacket.  She  says,  too,  he  insisted  on  walking 
away  in  pouring  rain.  He  refused  an  umbrella,  and 
he  told  her  he  never  considered  any  sort  of  weather  an 
impediment  to  his  moving  about  without  any  incum- 
brance.  I'm  afraid  the  habit  had  something  to  do  with 
the  terrible  rheumatism  which  he  mentions  in  the 
'  Journal '." 

"  Where  are  we  going  next  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  There's  a  heath  or  something  of  the  sort  at  the  top 
of  the  glen.  I  want  to  see  that,  for  it  was  there  Scott 
told  Captain  Basil  Hall  about  Thomas  the  Khymer, 
before  he  took  him  down  the  glen.  And  then,  I  think, 
we  might  try  and  get  a  look  at  Chiefswood,  where 
Lockhart  and  his  wife  set  up  housekeeping.  As  we 
skirted  Huntly  Burn  on  the  way  here  we  must  have 
been  near  it.  We  can  ask  the  way  at  the  cottage  we 
passed  on  the  right." 

We  found  the  open  ground  at  the  top  of  the  glen, 
and  made  our  way  through  a  field  or  two  until  we  came 
to  what  was  evidently  the  boundary  of  extensive  pre- 
serves. Mr.  Fairfield  peered  over  the  fence  upon  the 
well-timbered  land  on  the  other  side. 

"  Abbotsford,  I  feel  sure,"  he  said — "  part  of  those 
young  plantations  he  took  such  a  pride  in.  He  seems 
to  have  been  as  good  at  planting  as  he  was  at  writing." 

"  Chiefswood  is  on  the  estate,"  he  explained,  after 
we  had  retraced  our  steps  through  the  glen,  and  had 
made  inquiry  as  to  our  direction,  "  and  so's  Huntly 


THE  RHYMER'S  GLEN  239 

Burn,  where  the  Fergussons  lived  in  Sir  Walter's  time. 
That's  a  good  big  house,  I  fancy;  but  Chiefswood's 
quite  a  little  place.  So  far  as  I  can  make  out,  we  can't 
go  far  wrong  if  we  follow  this  burn.  These  paths  have 
a  mighty  private  look  about  them;  but  I  asked  that 
man  most  particularly  if  we  had  a  right  to  come  this 
way,  and  he  said  yes." 

We  were  following  the  burn  as  he  spoke.  The  way 
certainly  looked  like  a  path  through  a  shrubbery  ;  and 
a  moment  later  we  saw  in  front  of  us  a  three-gabled 
cottage  standing  in  a  garden.  The  house  had  a  porch, 
and  was  overhung  with  creepers ;  and  it  stood  on  the 
other  side  of  the  green  lawn,  upon  which  our  pathway 
opened.  We  both  stole  back,  round  a  turn,  and  peered 
out.  There  was  a  lady  watering  flowers  under  the 
windows.  It  was  manifest  that  we  had  almost  burst 
into  Chief swood  from  the  back. 

"  She  hasn't  seen  us,"  said  Mr.  Fairneld,  with  an  air 
of  relief ;  and  he  turned  to  retrace  his  steps. 

"  We  really  are  not  to  blame,"  I  urged.  "  Don't  you 
think  we  might  explain  matters  and  ask  to  be  let  out  at 
the  front?  Melrose  must  be  quite  close  ahead,  and  it's 
a  long  way,  if  we  go  back." 

"  No,"  he  said  morosely  ;  "  I  don't  suppose  she'd  be- 
lieve a  word  of  it.  There's  nothing  too  outrageous  for 
some  tourists.  She'd  think  we'd  done  it  on  purpose. 
And  I  wouldn't  force  my  way  on  to  that  lawn  of  all 
places  in  the  world,"  he  added. 

He  spoke  with  so  much  conviction  that  I  did  not  at- 
tempt to  argue  the  matter;  but,  a  little  later,  I  pre- 
vailed on  him  to  take  a  side  path  which,  in  the  end, 
landed  us  in  a  road  not  far  from  the  entrance  to  the 
house.  I  confess  we  had  to  skirt  a  field  of  oats,  and 
climb  over  a  fence ;  but  in  all  truth  I  can  declare  that 
though  trespass  was  committed  no  injury  was  done  to 
anything  except  my  friend's  raiment.  He  looked 
more  than  a  little  dishevelled  by  the  time  we  were 
once  more  on  the  highway.  Mr.  James  C.  Fairneld,  of 


240    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

Chicago,  is  not  an  agricultural  character,  and  in  his 
excessive  anxiety  to  avoid  injury  to  a  single  Abbotsford 
oat,  he  had  pressed  rather  more  closely  into  the  hedge 
than  was  good  for  his  wearing  apparel. 

"  I've  been  thinking  about  that  lawn  ever  since  we 
left  the  glen,"  he  explained  after  lunch.  "  Lockhart 
and  Sophia  Scott  were  quite  a  young  couple.  She  was 
Scott's  favourite  child  and  he  loved  Lockhart.  It  was 
a  great  happiness  to  him  to  be  able  to  establish  them 
quite  near  him.  She  was  dead  before  the  whole  of  the 
'  Life '  was  published ;  and  when  Lockhart  wrote  about 
that  cottage  he  laid  his  heart  bare.  He  doesn't  do  it 
again  throughout  the  book.  I  think  Mr.  Lang  says  so. 
I've  been  re-reading  it  since  we  came  back.  When  the 
old  porch  at  Abbotsford  was  pulled  down,  Sir  Walter 
with  his  own  hands  planted  some  of  the  creepers  from 
it  about  a  porch  at  Chiefswood,  that  had  been  specially 
erected  for  their  reception.  I  wonder  if  that's  the  porch 
we  saw.  If  you  don't  mind  I'll  read  you  a  few  passages 
from  Lockhart  about  that  garden  we  stepped  into — they 
used  to  dine  on  that  lawn.  This  is  what  he  says  about 
Chiefswood : — 

"  There  my  wife  and  I  spent  this  summer  and  autumn  of  1821 — 
the  first  of  several  seasons,  which  will  ever  dwell  on  my  memory  as 
the  happiest  of  my  life.  We  were  near  enough  Abbotsford  to  par- 
take as  often  as  we  liked  of  its  brilliant  society ;  yet  could  do  so 
without  being  exposed  to  the  worry  and  exhaustion  of  spirit  which 
the  daily  reception  of  new  comers  entailed  upon  all  the  family  ex- 
cept Sir  Walter  himself.  But,  in  truth,  even  he  was  not  always 
proof  against  the  annoyances  connected  with  such  a  style  of  open- 
house-keeping.  .  .  .  When  sore  beset  at  home  in  this  way,  he  would 
every  now  and  then  discover  that  he  had  some  very  particular  busi- 
ness to  attend  to  on  an  outlying  part  of  his  estate,  and  craving  the 
indulgence  of  his  guests  over-night,  appear  at  the  cabin  in  the  glen 
before  its  inhabitants  were  astir  in  the  morning.  The  clatter  of 
Sibyl  Grey's  hoofs,  the  yelping  of  Mustard  and  Spice,  and  his  own 
joyous  shout  of  reveillee  under  our  windows,  were  the  signal  that 
he  had  burst  his  toils  and  meant  for  that  day  to  '  take  his  ease  in 
his  inn  '.  On  descending,  he  was  to  be  found  seated  with  all  his 
dogs  and  ours  about  him,  under  a  spreading  ash  that  overshadowed 
half  the  bank  between  the  cottage  and  the  brook,  pointing  the  edge 
of  his  woodman's  axe  for  himself,  and  listening  to  Tom  Purdie's 


THE  EILDON  STONE  241 

lecture  touching  the  plantation  that  most  needed  thinning.  After 
breakfast,  he  would  take  possession  of  a  dressing-room  upstairs, 
and  write  a  chapter  of  '  The  Pirate  ' ;  .  .  .  whenever  the  weather 
was  sufficiently  genial,  he  voted  for  dining  out  of  doors  altogether, 
which  at  once  got  rid  of  the  inconvenience  of  very  small  rooms,  and 
made  it  natural  and  easy  for  the  gentlemen  to  help  the  ladies,  so 
that  the  paucity  of  servants  went  for  nothing.  .  .  .  When  circum- 
stances permitted,  he  usually  spent  one  evening  at  least  in  the  week 
at  our  little  cottage  ;  and  almost  as  frequently  he  did  the  like  with 
the  Fergussons,  to  whose  table  he  could  bring  chance  visitors,  when 
he  pleased,  with  equal  freedom  as  to  his  daughter's.  Indeed  it 
seemed  to  be  much  a  matter  of  chance,  any  fine  day  when  there 
had  been  no  alarming  invasion  of  the  Southron,  whether  the  three 
families  (which,  in  fact,  made  but  one)  should  dine  at  Abbotsford, 
at  Huntly  Burn,  or  at  Chiefswood  ;  and  at  none  of  them  was  the 
party  considered  quite  complete,  unless  it  included  also  Mr.  Laidlaw. 
Death  has  laid  a  heavy  hand  upon  that  circle — as  happy  a  circle  I 
believe  as  ever  met.  Bright  eyes  now  closed  in  dust,  gay  voices 
for  ever  silenced,  seem  to  haunt  me  as  I  write.  With  three  ex- 
ceptions, they  are  all  gone.  Even  since  the  [fourth]  of  these 
volumes  was  finished,  she  whom  I  may  now  sadly  record  as,  next 
to  Sir  Walter  himself,  the  chief  ornament  and  delight  at  all  those 
simple  meetings — she  to  whose  love  I  owed  my  place  in  them — 
Scott's  eldest  daughter,  the  one  of  all  his  children  who  in  counten- 
ance, mind,  and  manners,  most  resembled  himself,  and  who  indeed 
was  as  like  him  in  all  things  as  a  gentle  innocent  woman  can  ever 
be  to  a  great  man  deeply  tried  and  skilled  in  the  struggles  and  per- 
plexities of  active  life — she,  too,  is  no  more.  And  in  the  very  hour 
that  saw  her  laid  in  her  grave,  the  only  other  female  survivor,  her 
dearest  friend  Margaret  Fergusson,  breathed  her  last  also. — But 
enough — and  more  than  I  intended — I  must  resume  the  story  of 
Abbotsford." 

"We  must  find  the  Eildon  Stone,"  said  my  friend 
that  afternoon.  "  It's  on  the  road  to  St.  Boswells. 
We  must  have  passed  it  two  or  three  times.  The  tree 
that  once  stood  by  it  has  vanished.  That's  not  wonder- 
ful, if  Thomas  used  to  stand  under  it  when  he  had  a 
bit  of  prophecy  to  let  loose  upon  the  neighbourhood. 
And  the  Bogle  Burn's  quite  near.  That  was  where 
Thomas  was  lying  when  he  was  carried  off  by  the  Faery 
Queen.  Till  I  came  into  these  parts  I  always  supposed 
the  stone  and  the  burn  were  both  in  the  Rhymer's 
Glen.  I'm  afraid  Washington  Irving  was  to  blame  for 
that." 
16 


242    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

I  was  turning  over  a  guide-book  as  he  spoke,  and 

something  in  it  caught  my  eye. 

"  Suppose  we  hunt  up  the  stone  before  dinner,"  I 

suggested ;  "  and  how  would  it  do  to  go  to  Dumfries 

to-morrow  ?     It's  not  very  far." 

"  Why  on  earth  should  we  go  there  ?  " 

"  You  wouldn't  like  to  miss  '  Burns'  howff '." 

Mr.    Fairfield   smiled.     "Is   there   only   one?"   he 

asked. 

"  It  would  seem  so  from  this.     Listen  : — 

"  A  narrow  passage,  under  a  globe  on  the  left  introduces  us  to  the 
Globe  Hotel  ( '  Burns'  Howff ' ).  Here  it  was  that  Burns  foregathered 
with  his  friends,  and  his  chair,  boxed  up  to  save  it  from  the  depre- 
dations of  pilfering  and  scribbling  tourists,  occupies  its  old  place  in 
the  nook  which  he  made  his  own." 

My  friend  stretched  out  his  hand  for  the  book  and 
read  the  passage  for  himself.  When  he  spoke,  I  fancied 
those  happy  days  at  Chief swood  were  in  his  mind. 

"  That  was  the  last  of  his  styes,  I  suppose.  Well, 
well,  there's  no  accounting  for  tastes  !  Now,  if  I  were 
a  worshipper  of  Robert  Burns,  I  should  give  that  nook 
of  his  a  wide  berth.  But  some  folks  wouldn't  rest  till 
they'd  seen  Swift's  strait-waistcoat ; — if  there  were  such 
a  thing  in  existence." 

"  I  don't  suppose  many  of  the  visitors  see  any  differ- 
ence between  Burns'  seat  in  that  tavern,  and  Sir 
Walter's  chair  at  Abbotsford,"  I  remarked. 

"  I  daresay  not — to  them  it's  where  a  great  man 
sat ;  and  it's  nothing  more.  They  don't  know  of  the 
degradation  of  those  last  years.  Lockhart  drew  a  veil 
over  the  last  part  of  Burns'  life ;  but  we've  been  told 
all  about  it  since." 

The  road  to  St.  Boswells  was  easily  found;  but 
though  we  scrutinized  both  sides  of  it  with  careful  eyes, 
we  could  see  no  sign  of  either  stone  or  burn.  Not  far 
from  Newtown  St.  Boswells,  we  came  upon  some 
children  in  charge  of  two  nurses  and  a  governess. 

My  friend's  inquiry  of  the  nurse  who  walked  at  the 


THE  EILDON  STONE  243 

tail  of  the  party,  was  met  by  a  curt  "  I  don't  know," 
delivered  in  a  tone  which  seemed  to  suggest  that  to  be 
asked  about  such  a  thing  as  the  Eildon  Stone  was  almost 
an  indignity.  The  governess,  who  was  pretty  and  of 
pleasant  manners,  made  amends  for  this  rebuff  by  assur- 
ing us  that  at  one  time  there  had  been  a  stone  and  a 
tree  near  it ;  but  both  had  long  since  disappeared. 

"  They're  English,  and  don't  know  the  country,"  I 
suggested,  when  we  had  got  past  them ;  "  the  stone 
must  be  here  somewhere." 

"  There  must  be  the  burn  anyway,"  said  Mr.  Fair- 
field;  "I  wonder  if  that  child  can  tell  us  anything." 
We  were  on  the  verge  of  the  township  by  this  time, 
and  the  child  referred  to  was  a  little  country  boy  playing 
with  a  top. 

"  Do  you  know  the  Bogle  Burn?  "  asked  my  friend. 

"Na." 

"  Not  the  Bogle  Burn?  "  Mr.  Fairfield  spoke  gently, 
but  doubtingly. 

"  The  Boglebu'n?  "  repeated  the  urchin,  as  he  stared 
up  at  the  questioner  with  his  head  on  one  side  and  his 
brow  furrowed.  "  Na — Ye  mean  the  Boggle  Bur-r-rn," 
he  cried  out,  as  a  sudden  inspiration  came  upon  him. 
He  could  not  have  been  more  than  eight  years  old, 
but  the  contempt  in  his  voice  was  unmistakable. 

"That's  it!" 

"  It's  over  the  top  of  the  hill."  This  "  hill "  was 
a  rise  in  the  road  which  we  had  just  descended. 

"  But  we've  come  that  way,  and  we  didn't  see  it." 
Mr.  Fairfield  spoke  almost  piteously. 

There  was  no  surprise  in  the  child's  face  and  he 
answered  nothing.  But  the  stare  that  he  fixed  upon 
my  friend's  pince-nez  spoke  for  itself ;  "  You  ought  to 
have  a  dog  and  string,"  was  what  it  said. 

"  It  doesn't  run  across  the  road?  " 

"  It  does  !  " 

Delivered  as  that  child  delivered  them,  the  two  words 
were  a  direct  impeachment  of  my  friend's  veracity. 


244    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

The  poor  man  turned  to  me  in  despair.  He  had 
meant  to  put  a  question  ;  and  in  return  had  received  a 
knockdown  blow  from  a  mite,  who  stood  confronting 
him  erect  and  firm,  with  a  look  of  rebuke  upon  his 
chubby  countenance. 

"  It  roons  across  in  a  pipe,"  asserted  the  imp,  by 
way  of  driving  his  reproof  home. 

"  That  lad  ought  to  be  made  a  church  officer,"  was 
Mr.  Fairfield's  comment,  as  we  retraced  our  steps. 
"  He  had  his  head  screwed  on  the  right  way ;  but  if 
the  '  excellent  of  the  earth '  were  like  him,  I  don't 
wonder  eighteen  thousand  of  them  were  slaughtered." 

"  This  must  be  it,"  he  exclaimed,  when  at  length  we 
found,  on  the  right-hand  side  of  the  road,  a  scrap  of 
stone  wall  with  a  tiny  stream  running  through  a 
channel  under  it.  "I  don't  wonder  we  missed  it. 
But  where  on  earth  is  the  stone? " 

"  Perhaps  this  isn't  the  burn  at  all,"  I  suggested. 
The  shades  of  evening  were  beginning  to  fall,  and  I 
was  growing  weary.  "  Hadn't  we  better  give  it  up?  " 

My  indefatigable  friend  had  produced  a  guide-book 
from  his  pocket,  and  was  poring  over  it  in  the  failing  light. 

"  It  says  the  stone  is  on  the  road  to  St.  Boswells.  I 
mean  to  find  it.  I  know  it's  near  the  burn ;  though 
this  fool  of  a  map  marks  that  as  running  through  the 
Rhymer's  Glen.  That's  the  way  guide-books  are  com- 
piled. I  wish  I  had  the  jackass  here,"  he  added 
viciously. 

"  He's  only  fallen  into  Washington  Irving's  mistake." 

"  Washington  Irving  was  at  least  consistent  in  his 
mendacity,"  snapped  my  companion.  "  He  put  the 
stone  and  the  burn  and  the  glen  all  together.  Here's 
another  child;  I'll  ask  her." 

"  Perhaps  she  won't  understand  you." 

"  She  shall !  "  He  spoke  with  savage  energy  as  he 
turned  towards  a  girl  in  a  pinafore,  who  was  watching 
us  from  the  middle  of  the  road.  The  little  maid  and  I 
had  already  exchanged  confidential  glances  at  his  expense. 


THE  EILDON  STONE  245 

As  my  friend  paused,  to  frame  a  question  that  could 
not  be  misunderstood,  the  bit  lassie  looked  up  into  his 
face  with  a  smile  that  seemed  to  bid  him  not  be  afraid 
of  her.  She  was  a  pretty  picture  as  she  stood,  demure 
and  yellow-haired,  with  that  sweet  confidence  in  her 
aspect.  An  answering  smile,  half-whimsical  and  half- 
paternal,  was  on  the  tall  stranger's  lips,  as,  with  a 
polite  hand  hovering  in  the  region  of  his  hat  brim,  he 
addressed  her  in  honeyed  accents : — 

"  Lassie  wi'  the  lint-white  locks !  bonnie  lassie !  Is 
yon  the  Boggle  Bur-r-r-r-r-run  ?  " 

There  were  no  cross  purposes  this  time;  we  were 
speedily  assured  that  the  burn  was  running  under  our 
feet,  and  the  stone  was  a  little  way  ahead  of  us,  on  the 
left-hand  side  of  the  road.  And  more  than  this — it  had 
a  road-mark  on  it. 

Sure  enough,  there  it  lay  under  the  very  shadow  of 
the  Eildons;  a  mossy  fragment  of  rock,  deep-sunk  in 
the  bank,  with  a  flat  top,  bearing  the  impress  of  the 
broad  arrow. 

"Do  you  remember  Hester?"  asked  Mr.  Fairfield, 
as  we  turned  our  faces  towards  Melrose.  "  That  child 
was  like  her ;  grown  a  little  older : — 

Hester  stands  on  the  garden  plot, 
Swinging  her  bonnet,  and  all  forgot ; 
Croons  to  Tippo,  who  heeds  her  not, 
Spread  in  the  sunshine  and  lazy : 
Three-year-old  in  the  garden  there, 
Dove-eyed  innocence,  quaintly  fair ; 
Snow-white  pinafore,  golden  hair — 
Mother's  own  wee,  white  daisy." 


CHAPTER  XX 
BY  THE  TOLL-HOUSE  ON  THE  SELKIRK  ROAD 

THE  first  part  of  the  way  to  Abbotsford  lies  along  the 
road  by  which  we  came  into  Melrose  from  Galashiels. 
For  more  than  an  hour  before  we  started  on  this  pil- 
grimage, Mr.  Fairfield  had  pored  over  his  memoranda, 
and  made  frequent  reference  to  the  ten  volumes  of 
Lockhart  which  were  spread  out  before  him. 

He  was  in  a  brown  study  before  we  were  clear  of 
Melrose,  and  the  stoop  in  his  walk,  and  the  hands 
loosely  clasped  behind  him,  warned  me  that  he  was  in 
no  mood  for  conversation.  We  had  almost  reached 
the  fork  in  the  road,  hard  by  Melrose  bridge,  when  he 
broke  the  silence. 

"  I  suppose  you've  been  reading  up  Abbotsford  in  the 
guide-books,"  said  he. 

"No,"  I  answered;  "I  relied  upon  your  telling  me 
about  it." 

He  stopped  dead  for  a  moment,  and  looked  hard  at 
me.  I  had  spoken  without  malice,  and  I  met  his  gaze 
without  concern. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  very  tedious  sometimes,"  he  said 
apologetically. 

"  Not  to  me,  Fairfield.  I  was  quite  serious  when  I 
said  that.  If  I  found  you  tedious,  I  shouldn't  be  so  ready 
to  place  myself  in  your  clutches.  I'm  a  free  agent." 

"  There's  something  in  that,"  he  answered  laughing. 

"  We  might  rest  a  bit  on  this  rail,"  he  suggested, 
when  we  came  to  the  finger-post.  "  I  want  to  have 
another  look  at  one  or  two  things." 

246 


ON  THE  SELKIRK  ROAD         247 

"  That  cottage  with  the  garden  used  to  be  a  toll- 
house," he  said,  as  he  began  to  turn  over  his  sheaf  of 
memoranda,  "  and  I  think  it  was  there  Scott  used  to 
drop  his  coach-parcels  addressed  to  James  Ballantyne 
— instalments  of  the  novel  in  hand.  I've  no  doubt  the 
carriage  crossed  the  river  yonder,  when  they  brought 
Scott  home ;  the  arches  of  the  bridge  are  new,  but  the 
approaches  are  very  ancient.  He  wasn't  very  happy 
when  he  was  abroad.  I  don't  think  he  knew  how  ill 
he  was ;  there  was  softening  of  the  brain  going  on,  you 
know.  It  was  home-sickness  that  troubled  him.  He 
wanted  to  be  back  here — '  my  own  Tweedside,'  he 
called  it.  He  was  in  loving  hands  all  the  time.  His 
son  Walter  and  his  daughter  Anne  left  England  with 
him.  Walter  had  to  leave  when  they  got  to  Naples, 
but  the  younger  son,  Charles,  joined  them  there,  and 
came  to  England  with  them.  And  there  was  that 
good  man  Nicolson,  and  I  think  there  was  a  maid  as 
well.  He  made  a  short  stay  at  Home ;  but  when  he 
left  there,  he  was  so  impatient  to  get  home  that  he 
wanted  to  travel  day  and  night.  At  Nimeguen  he  had 
a  stroke  of  apoplexy  and  paralysis ;  a  much  more  severe 
one  than  he  had  had  before,  and  they  brought  him  to 
London  barely  conscious.  He  lay  there  for  nearly  a 
month,  sometimes  better  and  sometimes  worse;  but 
whenever  he  was  at  all  himself  he  was  eager  to  be 
taken  home.  They  let  him  have  his  way  at  last. 
They  took  him  by  steamer  to  Newhaven,  and  stayed 
for  two  nights  in  Edinburgh.  They  started  for  Abbots- 
ford  very  early  in  the  morning.  He  had  to  be  carried 
to  his  bed  in  the  carriage.  He  had  been  slung  from 
the  steamer  quite  unconscious,  and  he  was  just  the 
same  that  morning,  till  they  got  near  Galashiels — that 
was  over  thirty  miles  from  Edinburgh — but  then  he 
began  to  look  about  him.  I'd  rather  tell  you  what 
followed  in  Lockhart's  own  words,"  my  friend  went  on, 
as  he  turned  over  his  bundle  of  notes  in  search  of  the 
memorandum  he  wanted.  "  Here  it  is  : — 


248    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  But  as  we  descended  the  vale  of  the  Gala  he  began  to  gaze  about 
him,  and  by  degrees  it  was  obvious  that  he  was  recognizing  the 
features  of  that  familiar  landscape.  Presently  he  murmured  a 
name  or  two — '  Gala  Water,  surely — Buckholm — Torwoodlee  '. 
As  we  rounded  the  hill  at  Ladhope,  and  the  outline  of  the  Eildons 
burst  on  him,  he  became  greatly  excited,  and  when,  turning  him- 
self on  the  couch  his  eye  caught  at  length  his  own  towers,  at  the 
distance  of  a  mile,  he  sprang  up  with  a  cry  of  delight.  The  river 
being  in  flood,  we  had  to  go  round  a  few  miles  by  Melrose  bridge  ; 
and  during  the  time  this  occupied,  his  woods  and  house  being  within 
prospect,  it  required  occasionally  both  Dr.  Watson's  strength  and 
mine,  in  addition  to  Nicolson's,  to  keep  him  in  the  carriage.  After 
passing  the  bridge,  the  road  for  a  couple  of  miles  loses  sight  of 
Abbotsford,  and  he  relapsed  into  his  stupor ;  but  on  gaining  the 
bank  immediately  above  it  his  excitement  became  again  ungovern- 
able." 

Mr.  Fairfield  replaced  the  note  from  which  he  had 
been  reading,  and  we  both  meditated  for  awhile  in 
silence. 

"  If  anyone  had  been  sitting  here  that  morning,  he 
could  almost  have  touched  the  carriage  as  it  came  round 
there,"  said  my  companion  at  length,  pointing  to  the 
toll-house.  "  It  must  have  been  a  sizeable  vehicle, 
like  the  one  Dickens  took  to  Italy,  and  it  must  have 
been  shut  up  that  day.  It  was  big  enough  to  hold  a 
bed ;  and  besides  Scott,  there  were  Lockhart  and  his 
wife,  and  Anne'  Scott,  and  Cadel  the  publisher,  and  a 
Dr.  Watson  and  Nicolson.  There  must  have  been  a 
mountain  of  luggage  too.  They  must  have  had  four 
post-horses  and  a  postilion.  They'd  be  coming  slowly 
towards  the  turn ;  for  there  was  the  toll  to  be  paid — the 
postilion  would  be  getting  that  ready.  Then  the  gate  on 
that  side,  and  the  gate  on  the  other  side,  would  fly 
open ;  the  postilion  would  crack  his  whip,  and  in  an- 
other instant  the  whole  concern  would  vanish  round 
that  curve  on  the  left.  I  wonder  if  they've  still  got  the 
carriage  at  Abbotsford." 

"  Perhaps  you'll  like  to  see  what  Lockhart  says  about 
his  arrival  there,"  he  went  on,  as  he  picked  out  an- 
other scrap  of  manuscript.  "  You  can  read  this  for 
yourself." 


ON  THE  SELKIRK  ROAD         249 

There  were  only  six  or  seven  lines  of  his  clear  minute 
handwriting  on  the  paper  that  he  handed  to  me.  The 
matter  was  as  follows  : — 

Mr.  Laidlaw  was  waiting  at  the  porch,  and  assisted  us  in  lifting 
him  into  the  dining-room,  where  his  bed  had  been  prepared.  He 
sat  bewildered  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  resting  his  eye  on 
Laidlaw,  said — "  Ha  !  Willie  Laidlaw  !  O  man,  how  often  have  I 
thought  of  you  !  "  By  this  time  his  dogs  had  assembled  about  his 
chair — they  began  to  fawn  upon  him  and  lick  his  hands,  and  he 
alternately  sobbed  and  smiled  over  them,  until  sleep  oppressed 
him. 

"  He  seemed  better  for  a  few  days,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield 
as  he  absently  tapped  the  sheaf  of  notes  with  his  pince- 
nez.  "  Lockhart  and  Willie  Laidlaw  wheeled  him  about 
the  garden  and  the  ground-floor  rooms  in  a  chair.  It 
almost  seemed  possible  that  the  joy  and  relief  of  being 
home  again  might  work  a  cure.  One  morning  he  asked 
to  be  wheeled  into  the  library  that  he  might  look  down 
upon  the  Tweed.  Lockhart  read  the  fourteenth  chapter 
of  St.  John  to  him  there." 

"  Isn't  there  some  incident  of  his  dropping  his  pen  ?  " 
I  asked.  "  I'm  sure  I've  seen  it  referred  to  in  one  of 
your  books  as  the  most  pathetic  thing  in  literary  history." 

"  That  was  in  the  study  a  day  or  two  later.  My  notes 
are  made  out  according  to  rooms,  and  I've  got  one  on 
that.  It's  only  a  copy  of  Lockhart." 

I  took  from  him  another  fragment  of  manuscript  and 
read  it  to  myself  : — 

On  Monday  he  remained  in  bed,  and  seemed  extremely  feeble ; 
but  after  breakfast  on  Tuesday  the  17th  he  appeared  revived  some- 
what, and  was  again  wheeled  about  on  the  turf.  Presently  he  fell 
asleep  in  his  chair,  and  after  dozing  for  perhaps  half  an  hour,  started 
awake,  and  shaking  the  plaids  we  had  put  about  him  from  off  his 
shoulders,  said — "  This  is  sad  idleness.  I  shall  forget  what  I  have 
been  thinking  of  if  I  don't  set  it  down  now.  Take  me  into  my  own 
room  and  fetch  the  keys  of  my  desk. "  He  repeated  this  so  earnestly 
that  we  could  not  refuse  ;  his  daughters  went  into  his  study,  opened 
his  writing-desk,  and  laid  paper  and  pens  in  the  usual  order,  and 
I  then  moved  him  through  the  hall  and  into  the  spot  where  he  had 
always  been  accustomed  to  work.  When  the  chair  was  placed  at 


250    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

the  desk,  and  he  found  himself  in  the  old  position,  he  smiled  and 
thanked  us,  and  said — "  Now  give  me  my  pen,  and  leave  me  for  a 
little  to  myself".  Sophia  put  the  pen  into  his  hand,  and  he  en- 
deavoured to  close  his  fingers  upon  it,  but  they  refused  their  office 
— it  dropped  on  the  paper.  He  sank  back  among  his  pillows,  silent 
tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks  ;  but  composing  himself  by  and  by, 
motioned  to  me  to  wheel  him  out  of  doors  again.  Laidlaw  met  us 
at  the  porch,  and  took  his  turn  of  the  chair.  Sir  Walter,  after  a 
little  while,  again  dropt  into  slumber.  When  he  was  awaking, 
Laidlaw  said  to  me — "  Sir  Walter  has  had  a  little  repose  ".  "  No, 
Willie,"  said  he — "  no  repose  for  Sir  Walter  but  in  the  grave. "  The 
tears  again  rushed  from  his  eyes.  "  Friends,"  said  he,  "  don't  let 
me  expose  myself — get  me  to  bed — that's  the  only  place." 

"  Scott  lived  for  rather  more  than  two  months  after 
the  pen  fell  from  his  fingers.  It  was  James  Payn  who 
called  it  the  most  pathetic  incident  in  the  annals  of 
literature ;  and  he  says  that  a  famous  writer  to  whom 
he  spoke  of  it — he  doesn't  give  the  name,  but  I  think 
it  was  Thackeray — met  him  with — '  For  God's  sake 
don't  talk  of  it :  it  is  what  we  must  all  come  to '." 

We  had  resumed  our  journey  by  this  time ;  and  as 
my  friend  said  this,  we  were  passing  the  curve  in  the 
Selkirk  road,  round  which  he  had  seemed  to  watch 
Scott's  carriage  disappear.  Not  another  word  did  he 
utter  until  we  had  reached  Abbotsford,  and  had  made 
our  way  to  a  small  reception  room  in  the  basement, 
where  a  tribe  of  pilgrims  was  already  in  waiting  to  be 
shown  over  the  house. 


CHAPTEK  XXI 
ABBOTSFORD  HOUSE 

"  WHY,  there's  old  Braxy  !  "  said  my  friend  with  great 
animation.  He  had  been  cruising  about  the  little 
room  and  examining  the  pictures.  Sure  enough,  there 
was  an  engraving  of  the  Parliament  Hall  picture, 
fatuously  benevolent  as  the  original ;  and  near  it  hung 
a  portrait  of  Lord  President  Dundas. 

"  I  wonder  if  these  two  were  in  the  old  man's  office. 
They're  just  the  sort  of  thing  he  would  have."  Mr. 
Fairfield  was  making  a  furtive  memorandum  on  his 
shirt-cuff,  as  he  said  this. 

When  we  and  the  other  pilgrims  moved  off,  it  was 
under  the  charge  of  a  guide  of  the  gentler  sex ;  and 
the  first  room  to  which  she  took  us  was  the  study.  Its 
dimensions  are  not  striking,  but  it  is  light  and  lofty, 
and  the  window  looks  out  upon  an  enclosure  of  green 
turf  and  flower-beds.  Fortunately  for  us,  the  party  of 
visitors  was  a  large  one  ;  and  our  guide's  exposition, 
and  the  fire  of  question  and  answer  that  it  provoked, 
gave  us  ample  time  to  look  about  for  ourselves.  I  can 
remember  that  the  room  has  a  gallery  running  round 
it,  and  there  are  many  shelves  of  books ;  but  I  confess 
I  can  recall  nothing  else  very  clearly,  except  the  desk 
and  the  large  armchair  drawn  up  to  it.  As  soon  as 
one  catches  sight  of  these  objects,  and  a  picture  of  that 
heart-breaking  incident  of  the  pen  flashes  on  the  in- 
ward eye,  it  is  not  easy  to  devote  one's  attention  to 
details.  Perhaps  it  was  in  this  room  that  Mr.  Fairfield 
drew  my  attention  to  a  carved  chair  standing  in  a 

251 


252    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

corner,  and  told  me  that  it  was  made  of  wood  which 
had  formed  part  of  the  house  in  which  Wallace  was 
betrayed,  and  that  it  was  mentioned  in  Lockhart. 

"  It's  not  a  big  room,"  murmured  Mr.  Fairfield  in 
my  ear,  as  we  stood  on  the  outskirts  of  the  little  crowd, 
"  but  he  chose  it  because  it  was  the  only  one  of  the 
sitting-rooms  that  had  a  south  aspect.  He  liked  to 
work  in  bright  sunshine.  That  green  garden  outside 
is  where  Lockhart  and  Laidlaw  wheeled  him  about. 
And  you  see  those  ? "  He  pointed  to  the  desk  and 
chair,  and  there  was  a  note  of  awe  in  his  whisper. 

"  He  was  fond  of  that,"  he  resumed,  pointing  to  a 
picture  of  the  Canterbury  pilgrims  over  the  mantelpiece. 
"  He  used  to  draw  his  visitor's  attention  to  the  young 
squire's  face.  Let  us  have  a  look  at  it." 

A  minute  or  two  later,  when  we  had  crossed  over  to 
the  foot  of  the  stairway  that  leads  to  the  gallery,  I  felt 
a  touch  on  my  arm,  and  I  saw  that  Mr.  Fairfield  was 
pointing  to  some  books  on  the  shelves  near  us.  They 
were  volumes  of  the  "  Moniteur,"  and  there  were  many 
of  them. 

"  He  got  them  for  the  '  Life  of  Napoleon '.  I  hate 
the  sight  of  them ;  they  wore  his  eyes  out  so.  Lock- 
hart  used  to  find  him  here,  stooping  over  them  with  his 
spectacles  on,  and  making  extracts  into  a  little  book, 
that  he  held  in  one  hand." 

In  a  closet  which  leads  out  of  the  study  is  a  bronze 
cast  of  Scott's  death-mask. 

"Poor  old  chap!  Poor  old  chap!"  murmured  Mr. 
Fairfield  in  a  choky  whisper,  as  soon  as  his  eyes  fell 
upon  it.  The  feeling  and  reverence  of  his  tone  made 
amends  for  the  familiar  character  of  his  words,  and  my 
own  heart  echoed  the  emotion  that  lay  behind  them. 

The  dead  face  is  so  tired  that  nobody  can  look  upon 
it  without  a  gush  of  pity,  and  a  feeling  of  thankfulness 
that  at  last  the  man  is  in  his  grave.  We  are  not  moved 
by  the  grandeur  of  its  modelling ;  the  appeal  it  makes  is 
to  a  larger  humanity  than  that.  It  is  the  face  of  a 


§  £ 
<  2 


ABBOTSFORD  253 

brother  man,  stretched  out  too  long  upon  the  rack  of 
this  tough  world.  The  majesty  of  the  forehead,  and 
the  dour  earnestness  of  the  features,  tell  of  Walter  Scott 
the  genius ;  but  it  is  in  the  corners  of  the  mouth  that 
all  the  pathos  lies.  In  them,  there  is  the  droop  of  an 
infinite  weariness,  and  it  makes  the  heart  ache. 

"  Do  you  call  turret-rooms  like  that  '  closets '  in 
Scotland  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Fairfield  of  our  guide,  as  soon  as 
we  were  back  in  the  study. 

"  Yes,  that's  what  we  call  them  ;  but  Sir  Walter  used 
to  call  that  one  a  speak-a-bit.  If  he  wanted  to  speak 
privately  to  somebody  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  there 
was  any  one  else  here,  he  could  take  them  in  there." 

My  friend  shrank  from  making  a  note  on  the  spot ; 
but  he  had  no  intention  of  entrusting  this  precious  scrap 
to  the  sole  custody  of  his  memory.  He  took  measures 
to  be  the  last  of  the  procession  when  it  moved  onward ; 
and  casting  back  a  look  over  my  shoulder,  I  saw  him 
make  a  hurried  jotting  with  a  pencil  upon  his  wrist- 
band. 

A  door  leads  from  the  study  to  a  corner  of  the  great 
library.  This  is  a  room  of  noble  proportions,  oak 
panelled  as  to  walls  and  ceiling,  and  with  three  big 
windows  looking  out  upon  the  Tweed.  Apart  from 
the  20,000  volumes  which  it  contains,  there  are  treasures 
and  curios  enough  to  keep  a  connoisseur  busy  for  weeks. 
The  most  prominent  object  is  a  gigantic  portrait  that 
hangs  over  the  mantelpiece.  This  is  the  second  baronet 
when  a  young  man ;  and  it  shows  him  in  the  uniform 
of  a  cornet  of  hussars,  standing  by  his  horse's  head. 

"  It  was  here  that  Lockhart  read  to  him  the  four- 
teenth chapter  of  St.  John  :  '  In  my  Father's  house  are 
many  mansions,'  comes  in  that  chapter,"  whispered 
Mr.  Fairfield,  when  we  stood  in  the  wide  recess  of  the 
middle  window.  "  He  asked  to  be  wheeled  here,  so 
that  he  could  look  at  the  Tweed.  This  library  must 
communicate  with  the  great  hall,  for  he  was  wheeled 
up  and  down  them  both.  He  kept  saying :  '  I  have 


254    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

seen  much ;  but  nothing  like  my  ain  house — give  me 
one  turn  more '." 

In  that  recess  is  a  glass  case,  containing  a  number  of 
Sir  Walter's  curios,  supplemented  by  a  few  additions 
made  by  his  successors.  Among  these  additions  is  one 
of  Queen  Victoria's  chocolate  boxes.  The  guide  told 
us  that  this  had  come  from  "  the  heir,"  who  had  served 
in  South  Africa,  and  was  now  with  his  regiment  in 
India. 

In  the  library  Mr.  Fairfield  was  too  much  engaged  in 
listening  to  the  guide  to  favour  me  with  many  whispered 
communications.  He  had  come  to  Abbotsford  with  a 
conviction  that  he  would  learn  more  by  using  his  own 
eyes  than  by  paying  heed  to  what  the  custodian  might 
say ;  but  that  little  observation  about  the  "  speak-a-bit " 
had  wrought  a  wonderful  change  in  his  opinion,  and 
thenceforth  he  showed  a  strong  inclination  to  be  in  the 
forefront  of  the  party  when  any  exposition  was  on  foot. 
When  we  were  told  that  the  gasolier  was  the  one  put 
up  under  Sir  Walter's  direction,  he  even  ventured  upon 
an  observation. 

"  He  used  to  make  the  gas  here,  I  think." 

"  Yes ;  it  used  to  be  made  in  a  little  room  under  the 
terrace." 

"  It  wasn't  a  great  success,  was  it?  " 

"  No,  indeed !  "     This  was  said  with  great  decision. 

"  Our  young-lady  guide  knows  a  thing  or  two,"  he 
whispered  to  me,  as  soon  as  opportunity  offered.  "  That 
about  the  gas  is  in  Lockhart,  but  that  '  speak-a-bit ' 
was  new  to  me.  I'll  be  bound  she  could  give  one  many 
odd  bits  of  information  about  the  place,  if  one  only  had 
the  luck  to  come  here  on  a  slack  day." 

The  drawing-room  is  shown  next  after  the  library. 
Here  our  guide  mentioned  that  the  paper  on  the  wall 
came  from  China  and  was  put  up  when  the  house  was 
built. 

"  He  abandoned  this  room  to  Lady  Scott's  taste," 
explained  Mr.  Fairfield  in  my  ear ;  "  but  I  think  that 


ABBOTSFORD  255 

paper  was  a  present  to  him — Lockhart  mentions  it — 
and  he  must  have  had  a  hand  in  putting  Dryden's  por- 
trait here.  The  one  next  it,  in  the  red  cap,  is  Hogarth. 
That,  I  think,  has  been  moved  from  the  dining-room 
since  his  time." 

During  our  progress  through  the  study,  the  library 
and  the  drawing-room,  my  friend  had  abstained  from 
consulting  any  of  his  memoranda.  In  the  armoury, 
however,  the  temptation  to  take  just  one  peep  was  too 
strong  to  be  resisted. 

"  I've  got  a  note  about  that ;  but  I  can't  remember 
what  it  is,"  he  whispered,  when  the  guide  was  drawing 
attention  to  the  picture  of  Muckle-mouthed  Meg ;  and 
a  little  later  I  saw  him  in  the  background  peering  into 
an  open  pocket-book  The  light  was  somewhat  dim ; 
and  as  he  stood  with  the  book  close  to  his  eyes,  he 
looked  like  some  good  priest  wholly  absorbed  in  the 
study  of  his  breviary. 

Presently  he  came  back,  and  communicated  the  re- 
sult of  his  investigation. 

"  When  Scott  was  at  Malta,  on  his  way  to  Naples, 
he  talked  about  that  picture  to  a  little  party  of  friends ; 
and  long  before  that  he  showed  it  to  Washington 
Irving  and  told  him  the  story.  When  Scott  was 
young  he  thought  of  making  a  ballad  out  of  that  story. 
He  never  did  it ;  but,  I  daresay  you  remember,  Brown- 
ing did.  It's  in  that  last  volume  of  his." 

The  tour  of  inspection  ends  with  the  entrance  hall ; 
the  dining-room,  which  was  Scott's  bedroom  from  the 
time  of  his  last  return  to  Abbotsford,  down  to  his  death, 
is  not  shown  to  the  public.  Near  the  doorway  giving 
access  to  the  hall  from  the  "  little  pleasaunce,"  is  a 
glass  case  containing  the  last  clothes  that  he  wore  be- 
fore he  took  to  his  bed.  There  is  a  white  beaver  hat, 
a  bottle-green  coat,  a  striped  waistcoat  with  silver 
buttons,  a  pair  of  shepherd's  plaid  trousers,  a  pair  of 
drab  gaiters,  and  a  pair  of  shoes.  I  noticed  that  the 
inside  of  the  right  shoe  was  raised  from  the  arch  of  the 


256    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

instep  to  the  heel.  I  turned  to  Mr.  Fairfield  to  draw 
his  attention  to  this,  but  I  found  he  was  no  longer  by 
my  side.  He  was  standing  at  the  main  entrance  to 
the  hall,  and  taking  a  careful  and  very  deliberate 
survey  of  the  three  sides  within  his  range  of  vision.  I 
noticed  that  the  expression  of  his  countenance  was 
somewhat  acid. 

"  I  was  trying  to  identify  the  doors,"  he  said,  when 
I  stepped  up  to  him.  "I've  tried  ever  since  we  started 
to  keep  my  bearings  right,  but  I'm  not  sure  I've  suc- 
ceeded. That's  the  armoury  on  the  left ;  and  I  think 
the  first  door  on  the  right  of  the  fireplace  in  front  of 
us  must  be  the  drawing-room  and  the  other  the  library. 
That  chair  must  have  been  wheeled  into  this  hall 
through  the  door  behind  us,  and  into  the  library 
through  that  second  door.  What  the  door  in  the  right- 
hand  wall  is,  I'm  not  sure  ;  but  it  ought  to  be  the  study." 

The  correctness  of  my  friend's  surmise  was  soon 
verified.  Within  a  minute  or  two  the  whole  party  had 
filed  through  the  door  in  question,  and  were  standing 
in  a  lobby  from  which  the  study  door  opened.  This 
was  the  end  of  the  grand  tour. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  the  place  from  the  other  side  of 
the  river,"  said  my  unwearied  fellow-rambler,  when  we 
were  once  more  upon  the  Selkirk  road ;  and  he  spoke 
with  evident  longing.  "  You  go  straight  on  past  the 
entrance  lodge,  and  cross  the  ferry ;  our  guide  told  me 
so.  It's  a  mile  or  two,  I  am  afraid  ;  but  the  road  runs 
through  the  estate,  and  we  should  see  his  trees.  What 
do  you  say  about  lunch? — can  it  wait? " 

In  the  face  of  such  an  appeal  as  this,  what  could  a 
man  say ?  "I  should  be  sorry  to  miss  the  view  from 
the  opposite  bank,"  I  asserted  manfully ;  and  the  joy 
that  beamed  upon  my  friend's  countenance  almost  re- 
conciled me  to  an  indefinite  postponement  of  the  mid- 
day meal. 

"  How  on  earth  did  you  pick  up  so  much  knowledge 
of  the  inside  of  the  house  ?  "  I  asked. 


ABBOTSFORD  257 

"  There's  a  good  bit  of  information  about  Abbotsford 
scattered  up  and  down  Lockhart,  and  in  one  place  he 
sets  out  a  pretty  full  description  of  the  house  that  ap- 
peared in  some  annual  or  other  for  1829,  or  thereabouts. 
Allan  Cunningham  '  edited  '  it ;  I  suppose  the  truth  is, 
he  wrote  it.  It  pretends  to  be  written  by  an  American 
visitor.  Why  on  earth  the  man  couldn't  set  down  what 
he  saw,  without  putting  it  into  the  mouth  of  some 
dummy  American,  I  don't  know.  Tom-foolery  I  call 
it." 

"  I  suppose  there  were  plenty  of  American  visitors 
even  in  Scott's  time." 

"  Plenty !  The  supply  never  fell  short  of  the  de- 
mand." Mr.  F  airfield  said  this  with  some  dryness,  but 
presently  he  burst  out  laughing. 

"  It's  too  good  to  keep  dark,"  he  said.  "  I  was  think- 
ing of  a  story  that  Lockhart  tells.  Two  New  Eng- 
landers  called  there  in  Scott's  absence ;  and  on  the 
strength  of  certain  letters  of  introduction,  which  they 
spoke  of,  but  didn't  produce,  Lady  Scott  entertained 
them  till  he  came  back.  They  had  lunch  with  her. 
When  he  arrived  it  turned  out  that  they'd  come  with- 
out any  credentials  at  all,  and  he  showed  them  to  the 
door.  The  cream  of  the  joke  lay  in  the  fact  that  they 
were  both  rigged  out  in  the  Macgregor  tartan." 

"  Who  were  they?  " 

"  The  names  aren't  given ;  but  I  remember  one  was 
a  lawyer." 

"And  the  other?" 

"  He  was  a  Unitarian  minister." 

"Why  were  you  so  discontented  in  the  hall?"  I 
asked. 

"  I'm  not  sure  the  public  ought  to  see  those  clothes. 
I  was  quite  prepared  for  the  glass  case,  for  it's  mentioned 
in  one  of  Dickens'  letters.  He  saw  it  when  he  went 
to  Abbotsford,  and  he  didn't  like  it.  He  called  it  a 
'  vile  glass  case '.  When  one  remembers  that  they're 
the  clothes  Scott  wore  during  those  last  days  that 
17 


258    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

Lockhart  describes,  it  seems  almost  sacrilege  to  let 
Tom,  Dick  and  Harry  stare  at  them." 

"  What  did  you  think  about  the  death-mask?  " 

"  I  can't  make  up  my  mind,  but  I've  a  sort  of  im- 
pression that,  if  it  were  mine,  I  shouldn't  let  outsiders 
see  it." 

"  Scott  was  a  public  man,"  I  urged. 

"Yes,  to  a  certain  extent  he  was,  but  the  public 
never  saw  him  look  like  that.  And  I'll  tell  you  what 
weighs  with  me ;  when  I  saw  that  death-mask  I  felt 
uncomfortable.  I  think  one's  first  impulse  in  such 
matters  is  often  right." 

"  I  felt  a  touch  of  that  myself,"  I  admitted. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  anything  more  dead-tired  ?  I  could 
think  of  nothing  but  those  lines  of  Milton,  that  Charles 
Lamb  had  in  his  mind  when  he  wrote  about  his  own 
father : — 

How  gkdly  would  I  meet 
Mortality  my  sentence,  and  be  earth 
Insensible  !  how  glad  would  lay  me  down 
As  in  my  mother's  lap,  there  should  I  rest. 

And  he  looks  something  more  than  tired,  you  know. 
There's  no  weakening  in  the  face;  no  suggestion  of 
second  childhood;  but  there's  a  something  about  the 
mouth  that  reminded  one  of  a  child  I  know  out  yonder." 
As  Mr.  F airfield  said  this,  he  waved  a  hand  westward 
to  indicate  that  he  referred  to  Chicago. 

"  He's  a  small  enemy  of  the  human  race,  who  calls 
me  '  the  old  man,'  "  he  went  on.  "  Now,  it  made  me 
think  of  how  he  looks,  when  he's  been  disappointed  of 
something  he  wants  real  bad,  and  he's  trying  his  level 
best  to  let  on  he  don't  keer." 

"  Possibly  somebody  else  looks  a  bit  down  in  the 
mouth  when  that  happens." 

I  ventured  to  put  this  forward ;  for  though,  beyond 
the  fact  that  he  was  a  widower  of  long  standing,  I  knew 
little  of  my  friend's  domesticities,  he  had  mentioned  this 


ABBOTSFORD  259 

child  once,  before ;  and  now  his  tone  and  his  odd  lapse 
into  what  was  presumably  the  language  of  small  citizens 
out  West,  seemed  almost  to  invite  the  inference. 

Grandfather  Fairfield  kept  his  own  counsel,  but  his 
smile  was  so  amiably  self-conscious,  that  I  hazarded  a 
bolder  flight. 

"Yes,  sir!  When  the  old  man's  foolin'  round  out 
yonder,  I  guess  that  underlip  gets  fixed-up  right  away." 

Mr.  Fairfield  was  good  enough  to  reward  my  effort 
with  a  laugh.  "  Not  so  bad  for  a  first  attempt,"  he 
said  encouragingly ;  "  with  a  little  practice,  you'll  soon 
get  to  playing  cymbals  at  the  breakfast-table.  But, 
underlip  or  no  underlip,  he  shan't  be  brought  up  in  that 
fashion." 

"When  I  was  in  the  library,"  he  resumed,  "I  spied 
about  for  the  books  Sir  Walter  bought  in  Naples,  but 
I  couldn't  see  them.  He  took  it  into  his  head  to  have 
them  bound  in  vellum.  That  was  odd,  for  blue  morocco 
was  what  he  went  in  for,  in  a  general  way.  And,  by- 
the-by,  did  you  notice  that  portrait  over  the  mantel- 
piece?" 

"  I  thought  it  was  an  eyesore." 

"  So  it  is.  One  wouldn't  have  the  thing  moved  on 
any  account ;  he  put  it  there  and  no  doubt  he  thought 
it  beautiful.  He  was  proud  of  the  boy,  for  one  thing ; 
and  his  eye  was  accustomed  to  that  sort  of  plumage. 
I  daresay  his  own  yeomanry  rig-out  wasn't  much  less 
astonishing.  No,  it  wouldn't  do  to  move  it,  but  it's  a 
thousand  pities  he  didn't  hand  it  over  to  Lady  Scott, 
for  the  drawing-room.  A  man  doesn't  look  like  a  human 
being  when  he's  got  a  waist  like  a  wasp,  and  there's  a 
torn-fool  hat  cocked  over  one  eye.  He's  no  ornament 
to  a  library." 

"  His  memory  is  still  green  on  the  countryside,"  said 
Mr.  Fairfield  poetically,  as  we  left  the  ferry  behind  us. 

"  The  visitors  may  have  something  to  do  with  that," 
I  hinted.  "  Diana  was  well  spoken  of  in  Ephesus,  as 
I  think  I  remarked  to  you  once  before." 


260    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  I  grant  all  that,  but  it  doesn't  account  for  the  in- 
terest the  people  hereabout  take  in  you,  when  they  find 
you  take  an  interest  in  him." 

It  was  the  conduct  of  the  ferryman  that  had  suggested 
this  topic.  As  soon  as  he  found  that  we  wanted  to  see 
Abbotsford  from  the  bank,  he  was  all  alive  to  help  us. 
Not  only  did  he  give  us  most  minute  directions  while 
we  were  in  the  boat,  but  after  we  had  landed  he  stood 
watching  us  until  we  were  fairly  in  the  right  way. 
Once  when  we  hesitated  by  a  swing-gate  near  the  rail- 
way station,  he  made  the  welkin  ring  in  his  efforts  to 
keep  us  from  straying. 

"  Lord  Cockburn  speaks  of  the  pride  the  Selkirk 
people  showed  in  his  statue  there,"  my  friend  continued, 
as  we  made  our  way  along  the  lower  road  that  runs  by 
Tweedside.  "'Have  you  seen  oor  Sir  Walter?'  was 
the  question  they  used  to  ask  a  visitor.  I  hope  it's  the 
same  now." 

"  There's  his  '  romance  of  a  house ' ;  I'm  very  glad 
we've  been  able  to  come  here.  His  trees  have  grown 
so  well,  you  can't  get  a  view  of  it  from  the  other  side — 
at  all  events  when  the  leaves  are  on." 

We  were  standing  on  Tweed  bank,  with  Abbotsford 
full  in  view  across  a  shining,  dancing  river  and  a  long 
stretch  of  green  upland,  when  my  friend  said  this. 

"  People  talk  of  Abbotsford  as  if  it  were  one  of  his 
most  egregious  failures,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield  musingly. 
"  I'm  not  sure  that's  right.  It's  a  pity  he  ever  took  to 
buying  land  and  building,  for  that  led  to  all  his  troubles, 
but  a  good  deal  of  what  he  worked  for  came  to  pass. 
He  killed  himself  trying  to  pay  off  the  debts,  but  paid 
they  were  in  the  long  run.  And  as  for  the  estate,  he 
died  on  it  and  his  descendants  have  it  still.  Shake- 
speare didn't  come  off  nearly  so  well.  Time  played 
havoc  with  his  wishes ;  he  hadn't  a  descendant  living 
sixty  years  after  his  death,  and  New  Place  was  in  the 
hands  of  strangers.  No,  sir!  it  seems  to  me  that,  as 
things  go  in  this  world,  the  Fates  have  been  more 


ABBOTSFORD  261 

tender  to  Sir  Walter's  schemes  than  they  are  to  most 
people's." 

"  Three  generations  in  the  female  line,"  I  hinted. 

"Oh,  yes,  the  baronetcy's  gone;  but  that  doesn't 
grieve  me.  I'm  not  a  feudalist.  And  even  Scott,  who 
was,  didn't  care  much  about  that  title.  And  apart  from 
titles,  what  can  it  matter  whether  you  trace  back 
through  men  or  women  ?  The  other  view  seems  to 
me  mere  feudal  nonsense — mere  mediaeval  ignorance 
and  prejudice.  Lord,  what  rubbish  poor  Bozzy  wrote 
about  it !  " 

"  When  Scott  died,"  said  my  companion,  as,  on  our 
way  back  to  the  road,  we  halted  to  take  a  last  look  at 
the  big  stone  house — "  when  Scott  died,  it  was  such 
warm  weather,  that  every  one  of  the  windows  was  open. 
It  was  just  such  a  September  day  as  this  is.  I  can't 
make  up  my  mind  whether  I'm  glad  or  sorry  we  didn't 
see  the  room  he  died  in." 

We  strolled  on  the  Weirhill  that  afternoon,  and  the 
talk  turned  once  again  to  Abbotsford. 

"  I've  been  thinking  of  that  chocolate  box,"  said  my 
companion.  "  One  feels  inclined  to  sniff  at  the  other 
things  they've  put  among  Sir  Walter's  relics,  but  that 
box  is  in  its  right  place.  It's  a  relic  after  Scott's  own 
heart." 

"  That  occurred  to  me,"  said  I. 

"  I've  been  thinking  of  that  young  man,  too — '  the 
heir,'  as  our  guide  called  him.  I'm  glad  he's  a  soldier. 
I'm  not  one  of  those  who  look  askance  at  the  fighting 
business ;  I  did  a  bit  of  soldiering  myself  when  I  was  a 
boy.  That  young  man's  got  a  goodly  heritage.  I'm 
not  thinking  of  the  estate ;  it's  the  blood,  I  mean. 
There  aren't  many  of  us  who  wouldn't  feel  a  bit  uppity 
if  they  could  claim  descent  from  Walter  Scott." 

"  Scott  of  Arbartsfoord,"  he  went  on,  and  he  laid  the 
accent  on  the  last  syllable  and  imitated  the  pronuncia- 
tion of  the  country  folk — "  Scott  of  Arbartsfoord  !  Yes, 
it's  a  goodly  heritage !  I  never  heard  of  the  young  man 


262    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

till  this  morning ;  but  we'll  drink  his  health  after  dinner, 
for  his  great-great-grandfather's  sake." 

From  that  high  ground  above  the  river  we  watched 
the  sun  go  down  behind  the  western  hills. 

"  I  don't  wonder  he  was  homesick  ;  '  in  the  evening 
a'  comes  hame,'  "  said  Mr.  Fairfield,  as  he  stood  with 
his  hat  off.  "  I'm  glad  he  was  by  his  own  river  when 
he  died,  and  I'm  glad  he's  buried  by  it.  It  must  run 
quite  close  to  him  as  it  goes  past  that  red  cliff  at  Dry- 
burgh.  It  was  hearing  of  Goethe's  death  that  made 
him  so  eager  to  leave  Naples.  '  He  at  least  died  at 
home — let  us  to  Abbotsford,'  was  what  he  said.  Can 
there  be  anything  in  the  whole  world  more  lovely  than 
this  valley?" 

It  seemed  almost  unearthly-lovely  that  September 
evening.  The  western  sky  was  still  aflame,  and,  else- 
where, the  heavens  were  all  saffron  or  pale  blue.  There 
was  not  a  breath  of  air  stirring.  The  sun  was  gone ; 
but  over  everything  there  was  a  mellow  radiance ;  a 
pensive  glory  that  clothed  Eildon  like  a  garment,  and 
made  the  church  vane  gleam  with  the  pale  gold  of  a 
child's  hair.  The  current  splashed  and  bubbled  as  it 
passed  the  dam  and  hurried  eastward.  Above  that  line 
of  foam  the  river  was  at  peace.  There  was  no  sign  of 
movement  in  the  sheet  of  crystal  that  lay  before  us 
mirroring  the  firmament.  But  there  was  no  deadness 
on  the  water ;  it  glimmered  silvery  like  the  scales  of  a 
fish.  And  the  glamour  of  Abbotsford  was  still  upon 
us — the  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land  transfigured 
all  that  evening. 

"  No  wonder  he  wished  to  die  here !  "  It  was  I  who 
broke  the  silence. 

My  friend  made  no  answer.  He  was  gazing  at  the 
Eildons  deep  in  thought.  He  turned  as  I  spoke,  and 
looked  across  to  the  hills  of  Gattonside,  where  the  trees 
were  standing  out  clear  and  black  against  a  skyline  that 
was  all  saffron.  Then  his  gaze  moved  up  the  valley, 
across  the  green  pastures  and  the  still  waters  to  where, 


ABBOTSFORD  263 

beyond  the  hilltops,  there  was  a  burning  and  a  shining 
light. 

"  The  Land  of  Beulah  lies  beyond  the  Delectable 
Mountains,"  he  said  absently. 

The  words  fell  from  him  one  by  one ;  and  he  drew  a 
deep  breath  after  them. 

POSTSCKIPT 
"SIB  WALTER  SCOTT— FOR  SCOTLAND" 

The  irritation  of  impatience  .  .  .  returned  the  moment  he  found 
himself  on  the  road  and  seemed  to  increase  hourly  .  .  .  A  gentle- 
man who  lately  travelled  from  Rome  to  the  Tyrol,  informs  me  that 
in  the  book  of  guests,  kept  at  one  of  the  inns  on  the  road,  Sir  Walter's 
autograph  remains  as  follows — "  Sir  Walter  Scott — for  Scotland  ". 

— LOCKHAKT. 

Of  what  avail  the  Rhine,  the  Rhone, 
Venice,  or  Munich,  or  Cologne, 
Story  or  legend  ?  What  are  these 
To  such  an  one,  as  only  sees 
A  valley  under  Galashiels. 
And  cannot  hide  the  woe  he  feels, 
That  aught  should  hinder  or  delay 
The  whirling  of  his  carriage  wheels, 
And  fain  would  travel  night  and  day, 
To  grind  the  weary  miles  away, 
And  bear  him  home — to  Scotland  ? 

No  thought  of  her  as  "  stern  and  wild  "  : 

His  own  grey  mother ;  he  her  child 

Pining  afar  across  the  gap, 

To  lay  him  down  upon  her  lap, 

And  all  a-fever  to  attain 

That  one  sure  refuge  of  his  pain. 

— To  feel  beneath  a  Border  sky 

His  own  sweet,  caller  air  again  ; 

To  hear  his  river  murmur  by  ; 

To  see  the  heather  and  to  die, 

"  Sir  Walter  Scott— for  Scotland  ". 


CHAPTER  XXII 

WE  SEE  SHAKESPEARE'S  WILL,  AND  DAWDLE  ABOUT 
LINCOLN'S  INN 

"  SOMETHING  tangible  at  last,  sir! " 

This  was  Mr.  Fair-field's  remark,  as  we  stood  in  the 
gloomy  basement  of  Somerset  House  with  the  third  and 
last  sheet  of  Shakespeare's  will  before  us. 

We  had  entered  the  Will  Office  and  paid  a  shilling  to 
an  official,  seated  behind  a  barrier  at  the  farther  end ; 
and  had  received  in  exchange  a  slip  of  blue  paper  with 
the  name  "  William  Shakespeare"  written  upon  it,  just 
as  if  the  document  in  question  had  been  the  will  of 
William  Brown  or  John  Jones,  who  died  a  few  weeks 
ago.  We  had  taken  this  slip  to  a  room  leading  out  of 
a  passage,  that  ran  from  the  Will  Office  westward,  and 
a  smart  and  particularly  courteous  young  gentleman 
had  been  detailed  to  take  us  to  the  fire-proof  basement, 
where  the  will  was  kept.  Within  five  or  ten  minutes 
of  our  arrival  at  Somerset  House,  the  oak  casket  which 
contains  the  document  and  which  bears  a  brass  slab 
lettered  "  William  Shakespeare,  25th  March  1616  "  was 
before  us. 

"  Not  much  of  the  Circumlocution  Office  about  this 
place,"  whispered  my  companion  approvingly,  as  our 
guide  undid  the  casket  and  laid  the  last  page  of  the  will 
on  the  narrow  iron  slab,  before  which  we  were  standing. 
Only  one  side  of  the  paper  is  written  on  and  each  page 
lies  between  two  sheets  of  glass,  enclosed  in  a  light 
frame.  The  document  bears  marks  of  careless  usage  in 
bygone  days  and  through  the  glass  at  the  back  many 
patches  are  visible. 

264 


SHAKESPEARE'S  WILL  265 

"  I  suppose  you  have  seen  many  wills  executed,"  said 
Mr.  Fairfield,  after  he  had  carefully  compared  the  three 
signatures  on  the  will  with  the  facsimiles  given  in  Mr. 
Lee's  "  Life  ". 

"  A  good  few." 

"  Where  does  a  testator  sign  first?  " 

"  At  the  foot  or  end.  The  signing  of  the  earlier 
sheets  and  the  initialling  of  any  corrections  are  always 
done  afterwards." 

"  And  is  that  the  invariable  custom  of  lawyers?  " 

"  Certainly !  " 

My  friend  seemed  well  pleased  with  this  emphatic 
assurance,  and  for  some  time  he  bent  over  the  three 
signatures  in  anxious  scrutiny. 

"  In  what  order  are  the  other  sheets  signed?"  he 
asked. 

"  I  think  everybody  turns  back  to  the  first  page — 
that  seems  the  most  natural  thing  to  do." 

"I've  read  somewhere,"  he  observed — "  perhaps  in 
Donnelly's  '  Great  Cryptogram,'  that  the  handwriting 
of  these  signatures  shows  that  Shakespeare  was  a  per- 
son unused  to  penmanship  :  that  he  could  hardly  write 
at  all,  in  fact.  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  say,  nonsense.  Not  one  of  these  signatures  is  in 
that  sort  of  writing,  though  they  differ  very  much.  The 
one  at  the  end  is  by  far  the  best.  That  '  By  me 
William  Shakespeare  '  looks  to  me  like  easy,  practised 
writing.  I  hardly  know  what  to  make  of  the  others." 

"  Is  the  last  signature — the  first  according  to  you — 
equally  good  throughout?" 

"  Looking  at  it  more  closely,  I  doubt  if  the  '  Shakes- 
peare '  is  so  good  as  the  '  William,'  and  I  think  it  be- 
gins better  than  it  ends." 

"  I  agree;  but  it's  much  better  than  the  writing  of 
the  other  two  signatures,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
signature  on  page  one,  so  far  as  you  can  make  it  out  at 
all,  is  firmer  than  the  one  on  page  two.  And  that  one 
— the  last  of  the  three  according  to  you — is  abbreviated  ; 


266    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

the  William  is  W.I.L.L.M.,  while  the  other  Williams 
are  in  full." 

On  our  way  back  to  the  Will  Office,  we  dawdled  to 
watch  the  proceedings  of  an  attendant,  who  had  just 
borne  a  fat  volume  to  a  table  and  was  loosely  turning 
over  the  parchment  leaves,  and  at  the  same  time  con- 
sulting a  memorandum  in  his  hand. 

"May  I  be  allowed  to  look  at  that?"  asked  Mr. 
Fairfield,  darting  forward  as  a  gleam  of  gold  and  colour 
caught  his  eye. 

"  It's  one  of  our  curiosities,"  said  the  attendant,  lay- 
ing the  page  open  before  us — "  the  will  of  Sir  William 
Soame,  Lord  Mayor  of  London." 

The  parchment  bore  a  beautifully  executed  portrait 
of  a  grave  Tudor  citizen,  well  advanced  in  years,  and 
there  was  much  heraldic  blazonry  about  it. 

"  What  is  the  date?  "  asked  my  friend. 

"  Sixteen-nineteen." 

'*  Ah,  a  contemporary !  No  doubt  a  moneyer  and 
great  oneyer  in  his  time.  I  wonder  if  Shakespeare  ever 
saw  him." 

"  Let  us  take  a  stroll  round  here,"  said  my  companion, 
as  we  turned  into  the  great  quadrangle  of  Somerset 
House.  "  It's  such  a  peaceful  place." 

"  He  must  have  been  very  ill." 

We  had  been  sauntering  in  silence  for  some  min- 
utes, when  Mr.  Fairfield  took  his  cigar  out  of  his  mouth 
and  uttered  this  pronouncement  with  great  conviction. 
"  Halliwell-Phillipps  thinks  it  isn't  necessary  to  follow 
the  general  opinion,  that  the  signatures  betray  the 
tremulous  hand  of  illness,  although  parts  of  them  may 
indicate  that  they  were  written  from  an  inconvenient 
position.  I  don't  agree  with  him  as  regards  the  tremu- 
lousness.  To  me,  the  state  of  affairs  is  as  plain  as  a 
pikestaff." 

"  Shakespeare  sat  up  in  bed  to  execute  that  will,"  he 
declared  after  another  silence ;  "he  started  right  away, 
but  he  began  to  waver  before  he'd  written  his  name 


SHAKESPEARE'S  WILL  267 

once.  And  he  had  to  lie  back  on  the  pillow  after  that, 
and  write  on  something  held  straight  up  before  him. 
He  signed  sheet  one  next,  and  by  the  time  he  got  to 
sheet  two  he  was  so  exhausted  that  he  was  glad  to 
abbreviate  the  William.  That's  how  I  read  these 
signatures." 

"  They  do  look  rather  like  it,"  I  admitted ;  "  but  how 
about  the  resolution  you  made  when  we  were  at  Strat- 
ford, never  to  theorize  about  Shakespeare's  doings?  " 

He  had  announced  this  resolution  one  evening,  when 
after  poring  for  a  long  time  over  guide-books,  he  had 
broken  out  into  a  tirade  against  their  wholesale  em- 
broidery of  the  bare  facts  of  the  poet's  life. 

"  The  stuff  one  read  and  listened  to  there,  was  enough 
to  irritate  a  saint,"  he  answered;  "but  you  can't  see 
that  will  without  trying  to  form  some  sort  of  a  picture 
of  the  circumstances  under  which  it  was  made.  I  can 
imagine  the  sort  of  room,  or  at  all  events,  I  think  I 
can — a  low  ceilinged  place  with  small  panelling  every- 
where and  not  what  I  should  consider  a  good  light ;  but 
that's  as  far  as  I  can  go.  I'm  not  equal  to  reconstruct- 
ing a  scene  like  that.  I  often  wonder  whether  most 
people  do  better." 

"  They  don't  try,"  said  I. 

"I  suppose  it  is  rather  fanciful,  but  it's  a  weakness 
of  mine.  I  often  wish  I  could  see  these  things  as  Sir 
Walter  Scott  or  Macaulay  saw  them,"  he  added  wist- 
fatty. 

"  There's  no  harm  in  wishing  it,"  he  protested,  in 
answer  to  my  smile;  "expecting  it  is  quite  another 
thing.  I've  no  doubt  Scott  or  Macaulay  could  have 
made  a  perfectly  clear  mental  picture  of  the  scene  when 
that  will  was  executed — Shakespeare  himself,  children, 
friends,  doctor  and  all." 

"  I  think  one  may  fairly  assume  that  Shakespeare's 
doctor  was  his  son-in-law,  Hall,"  he  resumed,  "  and  it's 
a  comfort  to  feel  pretty  sure  that  he  was  a  good  one, 
as  those  times  went.  Halliwell-Phillipps  gives  some 


268    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

particulars  about  him,  and  so  far  as  we  can  guess  at 
the  nature  of  the  complaint,  it  wasn't  one  for  heroic 
remedies.  It  was  an  awful  thing  to  be  in  the  doctor's 
hands  in  those  days.  Have  you  ever  read  about  their 
treatment?" 

"  I  think  Macaulay  says  they  tortured  Charles  II 
like  a  red  Indian  at  the  stake,  and  one  has  a  general  im- 
pression that,  until  modern  times,  all  doctors'  stuff  was 
loathsome  and  beastly.  When  the  professor  of  healing 
was  called  in  the  patient  must  have  felt  like  a  state 
prisoner  awaiting  his  torturer." 

"  And  I  doubt  if  the  patients  had  any  great  faith  in 
either  the  doctors  or  the  remedies,"  said  my  friend 
laughing ;  "  and  that  must  have  made  the  position 
very  grievous.  I  was  dipping  into  Herrick  the  other 
evening,  and  in  the  '  Noble  Numbers '  I  came  upon  his 
'  Letanie  to  the  Holy  Spirit '.  He  speaks  of  the  art- 
less doctor — the  primary  meaning  of  artless  was  unskil- 
ful, then — and  he  goes  on  thus  : — 

When  his  potion  and  his  pill, 
Has,  or  none,  or  little  skill, 
Meet  for  nothing  but  to  kill ; 

Sweet  spirit,  comfort  me  ! 

And  they  eked  out  their  artlessness  by  consulting  the 
stars.  A  physician  without  astrology  was  thought  a 
poor  creature — he  was  likened  to  a  '  pudden  without 
fat'.  We've  much  to  be  thankful  for  nowadays." 
And  so  saying,  Mr.  Fairfield  fell  into  a  brown  study. 

"  I  must  be  getting  back  to  Gray's  Inn,"  said  I  at 
length. 

"  I'll  walk  with  you,  if  I  may." 

When  we  reached  the  Law  Courts,  I  turned  in  at 
the  western  gate,  and  passed  through  to  Carey  Street. 
Here  I  stopped  for  a  moment  to  greet  an  old  friend, 
who  was  sunning  himself  upon  the  parapet :  a  battered 
and  very  ancient  grimalkin,  who  bore  the  name  of 
Tom.  A  good  many  stray  cats  find  a  home  in  and 


LINCOLN'S  INN  269 

about  the  Law  Courts.  The  policemen  and  orderlies 
make  pets  of  them  and  see  to  their  rations. 

"  He  looks  a  bit  fresher  for  the  Vacation — like  most 
who  come  here  ;  don't  he?"  said  one  of  the  men  on 
duty. 

"  Ah ! "  responded  Mr.  Fairfield,  taking  the  joke, 
"  overtaxed  his  brain  before  the  holidays,  I  suppose." 

After  this  exchange  of  pleasantries,  I  made  for  the 
passage  which  leads  into  Lincoln's  Inn,  hard  by  Searle 
Street.  I  wondered  whether  this  was  new  ground  to 
my  friend. 

"  I  say !  "  was  his  ejaculation  when  we  came  upon 
the  staircase  of  the  house  through  which  the  passage 
runs ;  and  I  felt  an  arresting  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"  This  is  very  imposing ;  more  so  than  the  staircase 
at  Number  5  in  your  square.  And  what  a  lot  of  names 
are  painted  up  yonder — the  place  must  be  a  perfect 
warren.  Where  on  earth  are  we  ?  " 

With  this  question  on  his  lips,  Mr.  Fairfield  walked 
to  the  doorway.  It  did  not  take  him  many  seconds  to 
find  his  bearings. 

"  Number  7  New  Square,  Lincoln's  Inn,"  he 
announced  with  a  smile,  as  we  strolled  on  northward. 

"  That's  an  interesting  house  to  a  lawyer,"  said  I, 
pointing  to  Number  11. 

"  Sixteen-ninety-one,  according  to  the  tablet,"  he 
muttered.  "  This  square  is  older  than  I  thought.  And 
not  much  changed,  I  guess,"  he  went  on,  after  he  had 
retraced  his  steps  for  a  few  paces,  in  order  to  get  a 
better  view  of  the  east  side ;  "  though  the  red  tiles  are 
nearly  all  gone.  Why  is  Number  11  so  interesting?  " 

"  Three  Lord  Chancellors  have  come  out  of  it  to  my 
knowledge,  and  there  may  have  been  others,  for  all  I 
know." 

"  I  thought  you  lawyers  didn't  take  any  interest  in 
these  things  ;  Thackeray  says  so,  somewhere  in  '  Pen- 
dennis '." 

"I   remember   the   passage,"   said   I;    "and   oddly 


270    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

enough,  this  house  is  one  of  the  very  places  he  mentions. 
Lord  Chancellor  Eldon  was  here  for  nine  years — but  I 
can  hardly  expect  you  to  take  any  interest  in  him." 

"  Perhaps  I  don't  know  so  much  about  him  as  you 
do,"  suggested  my  friend  politely. 

"  That  is  possible,"  I  answered  with  a  smile  of  con- 
scious superiority;  "but  I  should  like  to  know  what 
your  impression  of  him  is." 

Mr.  Fairfield  stared  into  the  doorway  of  Number  11, 
and  seemed  to  gather  his  mind  together  before  commit- 
ting himself. 

"  He  was  given  to  port  wine,  also  to  doubting;  and 
Thackeray  hints  that  he  kept  a  good  supply  of  crocodile 
tears  on  hand.  That's  the  man,  sir ;  and,  by-the-by,  it 
was  he  who  decided  that  Shelley  wasn't  fit  to  have  the 
custody  of  his  own  children.  I  don't  say  he  was  wrong 
there." 

"Hum!"  I  said;  "I  needn't  advise  you  to  read 
Twiss,  or  even  Campbell,  after  that  epitome." 

"You  are  on  your  own — ahem! — ground  here,"  he 
answered  meekly.  "  Who  were  the  other  two  Lord 
Chancellors?" 

"  Lord  Cranworth  and  Lord  Selborne.  Selborne 
was  here  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century.  I  think 
it  was  his  home  before  he  married.  I  was  in  one  of 
those  top  rooms  on  the  north  side,  a  little  time  ago, 
and  the  occupant  told  me  it  used  to  be  Selborne's 
bedroom." 

"  I've  read  something  about  him,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield 
meditatively ;  "he  was  an  ecclesiastical  character. 
When  he  built  his  new  home  he  called  in  a  bishop  to 
consecrate  it.  That's  the  sort  of  thing  to  take  an  ordin- 
ary man's  breath  away.  It's  positively  mediaeval.  But 
he  was  one  of  your  great  Chancellors,  wasn't  he  ?  " 

"  I  think  so  :  one  of  the  greatest  in  fact.  Speaking 
off-hand,  I  can  only  think  of  four  others — Somers,  Hard- 
wicke,  Eldon  and  Cairns." 

"  I  don't  suppose  there's  an  old  house  in  this  Inn 


LINCOLN'S  INN  271 

that  hasn't  harboured  at  least  one  eminent  lawyer,"  I 
went  on,  "  but  I  think  this  house  holds  the  record. 
Lord  Langdale's  chambers  were  here.  He  was  Master 
of  the  Bolls,  but  he  could  have  been  Chancellor  if  he'd 
liked.  And  Leach  was  here,  too.  He  was  Master  of 
the  Rolls  under  Eldon 

"  It's  odd  that  he  should  have  come  out  of  the  same 
house,"  interrupted  Mr.  Fairfield. 

"  Why  ?  "  I  asked,  not  a  little  surprised. 

"  They  were  such  a  contrast  in  all  respects.  Do  you 
remember  the  Prince  Regent's  joke  ?  He  said  that  as 
his  Chancellor  was  called  Old  Bags,  he  must  call  his 
Master  of  the  Rolls,  Reticule.  Leach  had  a  finicking 
manner,  and  his  seal,  or  whatever  it  was,  was  carried  in 
a  purse  like  Eldon's,  but  much  smaller." 

"  You  pretended  you  knew  nothing  about  Eldon." 

"  The  temptation  was  too  strong  for  me,"  he  pleaded. 
" '  Let  us  hear  what  our  cousin  from  across  the  seas 
knows  of  the  great  Lord  Eldon,'  was  the  way  you  put 
it." 

"  And  how  did  our  cousin  pick  up  his  knowledge?  " 

"  When  I  was  a  boy,  Campbell's  '  Lives '  was  a  stand- 
ard work  on  our  side  of  the  Atlantic.  It  was  among 
our  books  at  home,  and  I  read  it,  or  a  good  bit  of  it, 
over  and  over  again.  It  was  my  introduction  to  Eng- 
lish history,  apart  from  mere  school-books.  Capital  read- 
ing it  is  too,  and  not  a  bit  more  inaccurate,  I'll  be 
bound,  than  many  of  our  modern  oracles.  When  I 
came  on  the  old  man's  portrait  in  your  National  Portrait 
Gallery,  it  was  like  meeting  an  old  friend." 

"  The  Inn  ought  to  publish  a  list  of  the  distinguished 
tenants  of  each  of  its  old  houses,"  said  I.  "  By  turning 
over  a  few  books  at  the  Law  Society's  library,  I  was 
able  to  credit  this  house  with  three  Chancellors  and  two 
Masters  of  the  Rolls,  and  I've  known  two  men  leave  it 
for  the  Bench — Ford  North  in  1881  and  Swinfen  Eady 
only  a  year  or  two  ago." 

"  Two   hundred  years,"  said   my  friend  musingly ; 


272    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  I  must  look  through  '  Campbell '  again  when  I  get 
home." 

"  You'll  find  that  he  mentions  Number  10,  that  house 
to  the  left.  Lord  Somers'  State  Papers  perished  there 
when  Charles  Yorke's  chambers  were  burnt  out  in 
1752.  You  remember  Charles  Yorke,  the  Chancellor 
who  did  not  live  to  take  his  seat?  " 

Mr.  Fairfield  was  scanning  through  his  pince-nez 
the  canopied  statue  of  Queen  Victoria,  which  adorns 
the  south  peak  of  the  roof  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Hall. 

"Remember  Charles  Yorke?"  he  said  laughing. 
"  Oh,  yes,  I've  some  reason  to  remember  him.  But  for 
your  grandfather,  young  lady,  and  his  Charles  Yorkes," 
he  went  on,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  towards  the  statue, 
"  I  might  have  been  born  a  British  subject." 

"  I  really  must  be  going  back  to  business,"  said  I ; 
for  his  flourish  had  drawn  my  attention  to  the  hall 
clock,  and  I  was  startled  to  see  how  late  it  was ;  "  you 
vowed  and  declared  you  wouldn't  keep  me  out  more 
than  an  hour.  This  is  what  always  happens  when  I 
give  way." 

"  I  apologize  for  detaining  you,"  he  answered  with 
immovable  countenance.  "  It's  a  pity  I  turned  over 
those  books  at  the  Law  Society's  library.  Out  of  the 
abundance  of  the  heart  the  mouth  speaketh." 

I  moved  on  without  attempting  a  repartee,  but  no 
sooner  had  we  reached  the  two  old  pumps,  which  stand 
some  forty  paces  eastward  of  Number  11,  than  he 
pleaded  for  another  halt. 

"  Two  or  three  minutes  can't  make  any  difference," 
he  urged,  "  and  this  is  one  of  the  very  prettiest  bits  in 
all  London.  I've  never  seen  it  from  this  aspect." 

I  stopped  not  unwillingly ;  for  Lincoln's  Inn  has 
been  a  part  of  my  life  for  five-and-twenty  years,  and  I 
love  that  prospect.  It  is  so  airy  and  so  spacious. 

"  It's  simply  wonderful !  "  muttered  my  companion 
under  his  breath,  as  we  stood  between  the  two  pumps 
and  took  a  leisurely  survey  of  all  about  us. 


LINCOLN'S  INN  273 

Never  to  my  eyes  had  the  surroundings  of  the  hall 
and  library  looked  more  fresh  and  leafy.  The  western 
tower  rose  against  a  screen  of  foliage,  with  not  a  house 
in  sight.  Flanking  the  other  tower,  were  the  Inn's 
own  plane  trees  and  long  stretches  of  turf  and  flower- 
beds. Stone  Buildings  peeped  out,  like  a  temple  in  a 
grove ;  and  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  from  the 
library  to  the  chapel  and  the  Old  Hall  beside  it,  there 
was  more  fresh  green.  Even  New  Square  was  pictur- 
esque. The  trees  and  bushes  in  its  garden  broke  up 
all  that  was  formal  in  the  weathered  brickwork,  and 
a  hot  sun,  just  past  meridian,  was  beating  down  upon 
the  turf  and  making  the  flower-beds  glorious. 

Mr.  Fairfield  lit  another  cigar,  and  leaning  his  arms 
on  the  railing,  gave  himself  up  to  an  inspection  of  the 
three  sides  of  the  square. 

"Are  there  many  residents  here?"  he  asked,  at 
length. 

"  Next  to  none,  I  believe.  Things  used  to  be  differ- 
ent. Men  lived  at  their  chambers  until  they  married  ; 
sometimes  afterwards,  I  think.  Charles  Yorke  was 
living  at  Number  10  when  he  was  burnt  out.  We 
are  told  he  escaped  in  very  scanty  attire.  Arthur 
Murphy,  Johnson's  friend,  lived  for  many  years  at 
Number  1." 

"  I  remember  him  ;  Johnson  '  very  much  loved  him '. 
I  must  have  a  look  at  that  house.  I'll  be  bound  old 
Sam  used  to  puff  up  the  stairs.  Did  you  hunt  up  the 
whole  square  in  those  books?" 

"  I  was  only  hunting  up  Number  11 ;  but  incidentally 
I  came  across  Wedderburn,  Lord  Chancellor  Lough- 
borough.  His  chambers  were  here  when  he  was 
Attorney-General.  Do  you  remember  him  in  Camp- 
bell's •  Lives '  ?  " 

"  More  or  less  !  I'm  rather  interested  in  him  ;  he 
was  such  a  good  friend  to  my  country.  Do  you  re- 
member that  saying  of  Junius — '  as  for  Mr.  Wedder- 
burn, there  is  something  about  him  which  even  treachery 
18 


274    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

cannot  trust '?  He  meant  treachery  with  a  big  T,  you 
know.  In  the  eighteenth  century  they  were  fond  of 
the  '  family  of  dismal  personifications,'  which  they 
marked  with  capital  letters :  Leslie  Stephen  says  so. 
That  '  even  '  always  makes  me  laugh.  Why  on  earth 
should  Treachery  be  more  trustful  than  his  brothers  and 
sisters?  Did  you  come  across  any  more  celebrities?  " 

"  Only  three  or  four — Law,  Lord  Chief  Justice  Ellen- 
borough,  Sugden,  Lord  Chancellor  St.  Leonards — he 
was  at  Number  10 — Sir  Samuel  Romilly  and  Richard 
Preston,  the  leviathan  of  conveyancers.  I  myself  re- 
member Lord  Justice  Chitty  at  Number  3.  That  was 
where  Serle's  coffee-house  used  to  be.  It  was  some- 
times called  Will's.  The  bloods  of  this  Inn  used  to 
breakfast  there  in  their  night-gowns " 

"  In  their  night-gowns !  " 

"  A  night-gown  was  the  same  as  a  morning-gown — we 
call  the  thing  a  dressing-gown.  It  was  tied  round  the 
waist  by  a  bright  coloured  sash  and  a  cap  went  with  it 
instead  of  a  wig.  I've  read  somewhere,  that  this  ele- 
gant undress  was  to  be  seen,  by  the  gateway,  over 
yonder,  after  George  the  Third  came  to  the  throne. 
But  I'm  forgetting  something  about  this  square,  more 
interesting  to  you  than  all  the  other  associations  put 
together — Charles  Dickens  was  a  clerk  at  Number  8." 

"  I  remember — I  remember !  The  man's  name  was 
Molloy,  but  I  didn't  know  the  number.  That  was  be- 
fore Dickens  went  to  Ellis  and  Blackmore  in  your  Inn." 

"  No ;  it  was  after  that  Molloy  came  here.  I  looked 
the  point  up  for  your  special  benefit.  I've  got  a  memo- 
randum about  it  at  Gray's  Inn.  I  can't  remember  the 
dates  just  now,  but  I  know  I  was  satisfied  that  Dickens 
was  Molloy's  clerk  at  Number  8,  and  that  he  went  there 
after  he  left  Ellis  and  Blackmore." 

"What's  that  bell?"  demanded  Mr.  Fairfield,  turn- 
ing sharply  round.  He  had  only  just  become  conscious 
of  the  measured  strokes,  that  were  sounding  from  the 
chapel. 


LINCOLN'S  INN  275 

"  It's  tolling  for  a  member;  perhaps  a  bencher." 

"  A  passing-bell !  "  he  ejaculated.  "  Shakespeare 
often  refers  to  that.  Perhaps  an  old  bell  too !  " 

"  Sixteen-fifteen,"  said  I  carelessly,  but  keeping  an 
eye  on  his  face. 

He  rose  to  the  bait  exactly  as  I  had  anticipated. 
"  Sixteen-fifteen — '  the  surly,  sullen  bell ' !  Shakespeare 
may  have  heard  it : — 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead 
Thau  you  shall  hear  the  surly,  sullen  bell 
Give  warning  to  the  world  that  I  am  fled 
From  this  vile  world,  with  vilest  worms  to  dwell. 

It's  strange  to  think  of  that  old  bell  tolling  here  since 
sixteen-fifteen.  It  must  have  rung  out  Macaulay.  He 
was  a  bencher  of  Lincoln's  Inn." 

"  Your  old  friend  Campbell,  too.  He  must  have  been 
rung  out  when  he  became  Lord  Chief  Justice ;  and  I 
daresay  he  was  tolled  for  as  Chancellor  when  he  died." 

"  I  must  certainly  re-read  Campbell,  and  keep  my  eye 
on  the  Lincoln's  Inn  men,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield,  as  with 
folded  arms  he  resumed  his  lounge  against  the  railings, 
and  turned  his  attention  to  the  garden.  "  These  trees 
don't  look  very  ancient." 

"  Oh,  no  !  Sixty  years  ago  this  was  only  an  open 
space — gravelled,  I  suppose.  At  one  time  there  was  a 
fountain  and  sundial  in  the  middle " 

"  Ah  !  Charles  Lamb  knew  that  fountain  when  he 
was  a  child,"  interrupted  my  companion,  who  is  a  de- 
vout lover  of  Elia ;  "he  mentions  it  in  his  essay  on 
the  old  benchers  of  the  Inner  Temple.  And,  by  jove, 
the  basin's  there  still !  Full  of  water,  too !  " 

"  This  garden  was  planted  after  the  new  hall  and 
library  were  built ;  a  sort  of  compensation,  I  think,  for 
the  havoc  which  they  had  wrought  on  the  Inn  gardens." 

"  They  must  have  taken  off  a  tidy  slice."  As  my 
friend  said  this,  he  turned  round  and  eyed  the  mass  of 
brickwork  with  no  great  favour. 


276    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  It  wasn't  only  the  site  of  those  buildings;  all  this 
roadway  right  up  to  the  archway  leading  into  the  Fields, 
was  filched  from  the  gardens.  The  railings  used  to 
come  up  to  Number  11." 

"  But  when  the  gardens  went  right  up  to  Number  11, 
had  this  square  no  outlet  on  the  west  ?  " 

"  There  used  to  be  a  tunnel  into  Serle  Street  be- 
tween Number  9  and  Number  10.  That  was  blocked 
up  about  sixty  years  ago,  and  for  the  life  of  me,  I  can't 
find  a  trace  of  where  it  ran ;  but  in  the  Stow  of  1720, 
there's  a  view  of  the  square,  which  shows  it.  I've  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  the  whole  of  Number  10  has  been 
rebuilt.  The  entrance  there  was  called  the  Postern 
Gate ;  the  entrance  into  Carey  Street,  between  Number 
3  and  Number  4,  was  called  the  Great  Gate,  or  the 
Back  Gate.  The  passage  we  came  in  by  is  quite 
modern ;  I  remember  it  being  made.  Before  this  square 
was  built  the  gardens  came  right  down  to  where  Num- 
ber 10  now  stands." 

"  I  haven't  given  your  Inns  of  Court  half  the  atten- 
tion they  deserve.  They're  the  best  things  left  in 
London  after  the  Abbey  and  St.  Saviour's  and  the 
Tower.  But  one's  time  is  so  short."  Mr.  Fairfield 
sighed  as  he  uttered  this. 

"  You  see  those  two  vine-clad  houses,"  said  I,  point- 
ing to  Numbers  12  and  13,  which  were  just  on  our  left. 

"  They're  older  than  the  others." 

"  Some  150  years  older." 

Mr.  Fairfield  was  much  impressed.  "  Why,  that 
carries  us  back  to  Henry  the  Eighth." 

"  They're  old  enough  to  have  housed  Dr.  Donne,"  he 
broke  out,  a  minute  or  two  later.  "  Donne  was  a  bar- 
rister before  King  James  made  a  clergyman  of  him.  I 
was  dipping  into  Walton's  '  Lives '  only  a  day  or  two 
ago.  Do  you  know  them?  Aren't  they  delightful? " 

"  That  they  certainly  are,  but  it's  hard  to  believe  that 
men  were  as  good  as  Walton  thought  them.  It  doesn't 
seem  consistent  with  human  nature." 


LINCOLN'S  INN  277 

"I  suppose  you  feel  a  doubt  about  the  morals  of 
the  judicious  Hooker,"  said  my  friend,  laughing. 

"  It's  a  wicked  world,"  I  murmured. 

"  Not  so  wicked,  though,  as  you  lawyers  believe,"  re- 
torted Mr.  Fairfield. 

"  Do  you  remember  Donne's  runaway  marriage  ?  "  he 
resumed.  "  Christopher  Brooke — Walton  calls  him  his 
chamber-fellow  in  Lincoln's  Inn — gave  the  bride  away. 
He,  and  Donne,  and  Brooke's  brother,  who  married  the 
couple,  were  all  sent  to  prison  for  it.  Donne  and 
Christopher  were  friends  all  their  lives.  One  likes  to 
think  that,  perhaps,  the  chamber  which  they  shared 
was  in  one  of  those  houses.  I  must  make  a  note  to 
look  into  Walton  again.  I've  an  impression  that  Brooke 
was  a  poet  as  well  as  a  lawyer." 

"I'll  be  bound  you've  studied  that  country  pretty 
well,"  said  I,  pointing  to  where  the  plane  tree  of  the 
Kitchen-garden  showed  between  the  old  houses  and 
Number  1  New  Square. 

Mr.  Fairfield  understood  me.  "  The  '  Bleak  House  ' 
country !  Oh  yes,  I  went  over  that  before  the  rebuild- 
ings  there,  and  I  saw  the  churchyard  where  they  buried 
Nemo,  off  Drury  Lane,  before  it  was  turned  into  a  re- 
creation ground.  Now  a  street  goes  over  it." 

"  How  marvellously  the  book  opens !  "  he  exclaimed, 
pointing  to  the  Old  Hall.  "  How  you  seem  to  be  stew- 
ing in  the  fog,  by  the  time  you  get  to  the  Lord  High 
Chancellor,  sitting  there  in  his  High  Court  of  Chancery  ! 
Thank  goodness,  that  won't  be  pulled  down,  though 
it's  been  shamefully  ill-used!  Have  you  ever  been 
inside?" 

"  Many  a  time.  When  I  was  young  the  Court  of 
Appeal  sat  there.  It  used  to  be  great  fun  to  watch 
Jessel  holding  Lord  Esher  down." 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  the  place,  but  I  know  it 
goes  back  to  Henry  the  Seventh's  reign.  Four  hundred 
years — just  think  of  it !  " 

"  It's  likely  enough  that  Shakespeare  was  inside  it  at 


278    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

some  time  or  other,"  said  I.  "  And  it's  more  than  likely 
that  Ben  Jonson  was." 

"  I  suppose  this  Inn  had  its  revels  just  the  same  as 
Gray's  Inn?" 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it.  Charles  the  Second  and  the  Duke 
of  York  attended  one  in  that  very  Hall,  soon  after  the 
Restoration.  Evelyn  was  there — he  came  up  to  town  on 
purpose — and  what  is  very  curious,  Pepys  saw  the  King's 
guard  on  the  way  here.  He  was  just  outside  Temple 
Bar." 

"  And  Charles  and  James  were  in  that  Hall  again  a 
few  years  later,"  I  continued ;  "  and  that  time  Mon- 
mouth  and  Prince  Rupert  were  with  them." 

"  It's  a  far  cry  from  those  Stuarts  to  Charles  Dickens," 
said  Mr.  Fairfield.  "  I  never  thought  of  the  place  ex- 
cept in  connexion  with  his  Jarndyce  and  Jarndyce. 

"  It's  one  of  the  most  interesting  buildings  in  London 
to  a  lawyer,"  I  asserted  with  some  enthusiasm.  "I'm 
not  deeply  read  in  legal  annals,  but  I've  come  across  it 
again  and  again." 

"  It's  a  pity  you're  so  pressed  for  time,"  hinted  my 
companion  as  I  paused  to  get  my  memory  into  focus. 

"  I  can't  recollect  much  on  the  spur  of  the  moment," 
I  said,  laughing,  "  but  I  know  it  was  in  that  Hall  Lord 
Mansfield  took  leave  of  the  Bar  when  he  was  made 
Lord  Chief  Justice,  and  I  know  Lord  Chancellor 
Erskine  took  his  leave  there,  when  George  the  Third  got 
rid  of  All  the  Talents.  And  it  was  there  Eldon,  as  a  young 
man,  argued  Ackroyd  and  Smithson  before  Lord  Chan- 
cellor Thurlow.  Your  benefactor  Wedderburn  led  on 
the  other  side.  And  I've  another  shot  in  the  locker. 
It  was  there  Sheridan  harangued  Eldon  for  hours  in 
the  Drury  Lane  case." 

"  I've  never  been  inside,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield  wistfully. 

"  There's  an  oak  screen  that  was  put  up  in  Queen 
Elizabeth's  time,  and  some  coats  of  arms  painted  on 
panels — Prince  Rupert's  for  one.  It's  the  very  place 
for  you.  I  must  be  off  and  take  hold  of  my  business, 


LINCOLN'S  INN  279 

but  you're  a  gentleman  of  leisure ;  why  not  present 
yourself  to  the  steward,  and  ask  him  to  lend  you  the 
key?  And,  by-the-by,  you  might  ask  him  whereabouts 
in  Number  8,  Molloy's  office  was." 

"  '  With  thee  conversing  I  forget  all  time,'  "  quoted 
my  friend  with  polite  rapture ;  and  thereupon  I  broke 
loose  and  left  him  to  his  own  devices. 


POSTSCEIPT 
THE  GHOSTS  OF  LINCOLN'S  INN 

Candlemas-night !  and  the  moonbeams  fall 

Cold  and  faint  on  the  old  white  HalL 

Square  and  chapel  and  all  about, 

Shuttered  and  barred  from  the  world  without ; 

Only  a  rumble,  now  and  again 

Heard  through  the  portal  of  Chancery  Lane : 

"  Lovell's  gatehouse  "  of  centuries  four — 

Good  red  brick,  with  its  old  oak  door 

Fashioned  and  hung,  as  the  record  saith, 

Anno  sexto,  Elizabeth. 

Twelve  of  the  clock  1  and  the  New  Hall's  chime 

Rings  in  the  Old  Hall's  festival  time. 

E'en  as  the  last  stroke  dies  in  air 

Lutes  and  fiddles  are  merry  there  ; 

Painted  windows  ot  earlier  days, 

Flaunt  their  heraldries,  all  ablaze. 

Candlemas  Revel !  the  screens  affirm ; 

Great  Grand-night,  of  Hilary  Term  ! 

Marred  no  longer  by  stucco  or  slate, 

The  Old  Hall  shows  like  the  old  brick  gate  ; 

Free  to-night  to  welcome  its  dead, 

In  Tudor  habit,  mulberry-red. 

Shadows  trooping  to  meet  their  kin : 
Old-time  members  of  Lincoln's  Inn  ; 
Legal  phantoms,  an  endless  train, 
Flocking  to  dance  in  their  hall  again. 
Many  a  serjeant  brave  in  fur, 
Many  a  wizen  conveyancer, 
Chancellors  ranging  from  Selborne  to  More, 
Masters  in  Chancery,  many  a  score, 
Countless  judges  in  ermine  pile, 
Hordes  and  hordes  of  the  rank  and  file. 


280    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

Light-heeled  phantoms  that  come  at  call, 
Mad  to  dance  m  their  ancient  hall. 
(Some  who  feasted  and  drank  their  wine  A 
Under  its  roof -tree  fresh  and  fine — 
Fourteen  hundred  and  eighty-nine  !)       J 
Roistering  student,  or  learned  wight 
All  are  bent  on  the  dance  to-night ; 
Even  the  crop-eared  ghost  of  Prynne 
Speeds  to  the  revel  at  Lincoln's  Iiin. 

Music,  thin  as  a  mouse's  cry, 
Pours  from  the  gallery  up  on  high  ; 
All  below  is  a  seething  whirl ; 
Grown  and  tippet  and  formal  curl : 
Thick  as  gnats  in  a  twilight  air, 
Revellers  many  ;  but  room  to  spare. 
Down  the  middle  on  heel  and  toe  ; 
Up  the  sides — and  away  they  go  ! 
Apt  to  vanish,  as  shadows  may, 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away, 
Out  at  pleasure  through  wall  or  pane  ; 
Rounding  the  precincts  and  back  again ! 

Each  can  figure  it,  great  or  small ; 
Christopher  Hatton  can  dance  for  all. 
(Not  of  right  may  he  skim  the  floor ; 
Only  by  grace,  as  a  chancellor. 
Old-time  custom  and  law  invite 
All  the  judges  on  Candlemas-night.) 
Inwards ;  outwards ;  never  a  stop  ; 
Christopher  spins  like  a  humming  top  : 
Never  a  halt  or  a  breathing  space  ! 
Off  he  canaries  to  Ely  Place  ; 
Sports  awhile  in  his  home  of  yore  ; 
Frolics  back  for  a  spring  with  More. 

All  to-night  of  the  same  degree  ; 
None  make  way  for  a  splendid  three — 
Diamond  buckle  on  red-heeled  shoe, 
George  and  ribbon  of  garter  blue, 
'Broidered  velvet  and  full  peruke, 
Fit  for  a  king  or  a  royal  duke ; 
Members  all,  as  the  gown  proclaims  ; 
Rupert  is  dancing  with  Charles  and  James. 

Dizzy  and  Gladstone  meet  and  frown  ; 
Each  swings  by  in  his  student's  gown. 
Williams,  Johnny  and  Williams,  Josh 
Flee  from  a  lecture  by  Mackintosh. 


LINCOLN'S  INN  281 

Snug  in  a  corner,  vis-dk-vis, 
Brougham  and  Sugden  caper  free  ; 
Gay  little  chanson,  Lyndhurst  hums  : 
All  look  shirty  when  Campbell  comes  ; 
Campbell  bursting  to  make  it  clear, 
He  alone  is  the  dancer  here. 

Denham  and  Wither  foot  it  now  ; 
Fiddlers  rise  in  their  seats  and  bow  ; 
Changing  the  tune  of  the  flying  feet 
To  an  old-world  madrigal  piercing  sweet : 
Shall  I,  wasting  in  despaire, 
Dye,  because  a  woman's  fair  ? 
Wither  blushes  ;  for  all  the  train 
Lift  their  voices  and  swell  the  strain, 
Thanks  to  the  prompting,  one  affords — 
Bencher  Macaulay  has  the  words. 
Shades  in  the  moonlight  carry  it  on  : 
Christopher  Brooke  and  Dr.  Donne, 
Frisking  round  ;  as  they  dip  and  rise 
Hand  in  hand  are  the  old  allies. 
On,  and  on,  to  the  graveyard  stones 
Under  the  arches  of  Inigo  Jones ; 
Past  the  gatehouse,  and  round  the  Square ; 
Back  to  the  Hall  and  the  dancers  there. 

Members  and  judges  in  endless  tale, 

Dashed  with  a  sprinkle  from  out  the  pale  : 

Worthy  bill-men,  who  "charged  "  and  "prayed," 

Others  who  "answered,"  undismayed; 

Blooded  free  in  the  Bar's  behoof 

Under  the  Old  Hall's  timbered  roof. 

Such  be  they,  whom  the  shades  requite — 

Free  of  the  revel  on  Candlemas-night. 

Old  Tom  Jarndyce,  felo  de  se, 

Back  again  where  he  used  to  be  ; 

Fanner  Gridley,  the  Shropshire  man  ; 

Bright-eyed,  bottle-nosed  Sheridan : 

Ackroyd  whistles  to  Smithson's  reel ; 

Sibley  and  Perry  are  toe  and  heel. 

Students  jostle  with  ermined  peers, 
Paying  their  court  to  the  buffeteers. 
Each  may  drink  as  his  will  be  fain  ; 
"  Silver-tongued  Murray  "  sips  champagne  ; 
Taps  his  snuff  box  and  cites  a  trope, 
Just  as  it  fell  from  the  mouth  of  Pope. 
Garrick,  beaming  at  Camden's  side, 
Lifts  a  glass  of  the  amber  tide  ; 


282    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

Pledges  Nash l  ere  he  tips  it  down — 

"  Warwickshire  Will  and  Stratford  town  !  " 

Rubicund  ancients  mellow  and  gay, 

Crack  the  jokes  of  a  bygone  day  ; 

All  of  a-chuckle  at  Erskine's  wit ; 

Cowed  a  little  by  Treasurer  Pitt. 

Bencher  Canning,  in  worshipful  form, 

Drinks — "To  the  pilot  that  weathered  the  storm  ". 

Eldon  back  in  his  ancient  court, 

Spins  his  yarn  as  he  swigs  his  port ; 

Hints  a  longing  for  "  liver  and  crow  "  ; 

Leach  grimaces  and  sips  noyau. 

Hardwicke  questions  without  avail, 

Broomstick  legends  of  Matthew  Hale. 

Thurlow,  fuddled  and  grown  morose, 
Knits  his  terrible  eyebrows  close  ; 
Snaps  at  Kenyon — who  snaps  in  turn — 
Rages  and  curses  at  Wedderburn. 
Sandy  bows  as  he  plants  a  sting ; 
Saunters  off  under  Murphy's  wing. 
Spectres  pause  as  the  taunts  fly  free  : 
All  of  them  laugh,  but  a  group  of  three — 
Selbome  and  Cairns  and  Hatherley. 

Music  ceases  and  flambeaux  wane  ; 
Spectres  vanish  through  wall  and  pane  : 
Hither  and  thither,  they  wheel  and  wend, 
Dotting  the  precincts  from  end  to  end  ; 
All  agog  for  the  closing  sport — 
Old-time  round  of  the  Inns  of  Court. 
Flitting  outwards  to  form  and  sing, 
Hand  in  hand  in  a  triple  ring — 
Vast  encompassing  circles  three 
Round  the  baud  where  the  fire  should  be. 

Lutes  and  fiddles  are  bending  low ;  -j 

Master-fiddler  dips  his  bow  ; 

Squeal  the  fiddles  ;  and  off  they  go  \J 

Innermost,  outermost,  every  sprite 

Tossing  and  turning,  left  to  right ; 

Those  of  the  middlemost,  madly  gay, 

Turning  and  tossing  the  other  way. 

— Romping  the  measure  with  leap  and  bound, 

Quicker  and  quicker  they  fly  around ; 

Shrilling  forth,  as  a  Bedlam  choir — 

Here  we  dance  round  our  seacoal  fire  ! 

1  Thomas  Nash,  who  married  Shakespeare's  granddaughter,  Eliza- 
beth Hall,  and  died  at  New  Place. 


LINCOLN'S  INN  283 

Thrice  they  circle  and  thrice  they  shrill — 
Scatter  ! — vanish  !   And  all  is  still ! 
Only  a  cock  crow,  faintly  borne, 
Hails  a  streak  of  the  coming  morn. 

Vapours  rising  clammy  and  cold, 

Wrap  the  Inn  in  an  icy  fold ; 

Spectral  trees  on  gravel  and  lawn, 

Drip,  drip,  drip  to  a  murky  dawn. 

But  daylight  flares  over  Chancery  Lane, 

And  the  wind  smites  down  upon  louvre  and  vane, 

Gust  upon  gust,  with  a  lashing  of  rain. 

Candlemas- morrow  comes  in  with  a  squall, 
To  a  work-a-day  world  and  an  old  white  hall. 

NOTE. — All  the  shades  mentioned  above,  with  the  exception  of 
the  old  litigants  and  the  judges  following,  namely — Lord  Chan- 
cellor Hatton,  Mr.  Justice  "Johnny"  Williams,  Lord  Chancellor 
Camden,  Lord  Chancellor  Eldon,  Sir  John  Leach,  Master  of  the 
Rolls,  Lord  Chancellor  Thurlow,  Lord  Chief  Justice  Kenyon, 
and  Wedderburn,  Lord  Chancellor  Loughborough,  were  members 
of  Lincoln's  Inn. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

MB.  FAIRFIELD  TURNS  RECORD-HUNTER,  AND  STUDIES 
"SWINBURNE  ON  WILLS  " 

IT  was  a  little  after  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  the 
day  following  our  visit  to  Somerset  House,  that  upon 
answering  a  modest  knock  at  my  office  door,  I  found 
Mr.  Fairfield  standing  on  the  threshold.  He  knew  that 
he  was  reasonably  certain  to  find  me  alone  and  disen- 
gaged at  that  hour  during  the  Long  Vacation. 

"  Well !  "  I  said,  as  I  proceeded  to  brew  a  cup  of  tea, 
as  is  my  hospitable  custom  on  such  occasions,  "  did  you 
get  inside  the  Old  Hall  yesterday  ?  " 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  did.  There  was  some  clean- 
ing going  on,  and  the  foreman  let  me  in.  But  I  haven't 
come  to  talk  about  that.  I've  had  a  disappointment." 

My  visitor  gave  his  right  eye  a  rub  with  his  forefinger 
as  he  said  this,  and  I  noticed  that  the  orb  bore  a  some- 
what angry  appearance. 

"  I  was  thinking  about  Shakespeare's  will  last  night," 
he  resumed,  "  and  I  took  up  Herrick  to  look  at  that 
'Letanie'.  I  happened  to  cast  my  eye  over  the  bio- 
graphical introduction,  and  lo,  and  behold !  I  came  on 
a  statement  that  Sir  Stephen  Soame  was  the  husband 
of  Herrick's  maternal  aunt.  Wasn't  it  an  odd  coinci- 
dence?" 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"  He  was  that  old  chap — the  Lord  Mayor — whose 
will  we  saw." 

"  It  certainly  was  odd,"  I  admitted. 

"  When  I  turned  to  the  index  and  found  there  were 

284 


RECORD-HUNTING  285 

a  lot  of  poems  addressed  to  members  of  the  Soame 
family,  I  got  quite  excited,"  continued  Mr.  Fairfield, 
now  busy  with  scraps  of  memoranda. 

"  I'll  be  bound  you  did." 

"  There  was  one  to  his  honoured  kinsman  Sir  William 
Soame,  another  to  the  most  fair  and  lovely  Mistress 
Anne  Soame,  another  to  his  kinsman  Sir  Thomas  Soame, 
and  another  to  his  worthy  kinsman  Mr.  Stephen  Soame. 
I  galloped  off  to  the  Museum  the  first  thing  this  morn- 
ing, and  looked  up  all  I  could  find  about  Herrick  and 
his  family.  I  found  little  enough  about  the  Herricks, 
and  nothing  at  all  about  the  Soames.  Of  course,  I 
didn't  give  much  time  to  it.  But  I  did  find  out  that 
Herrick  had  three  brothers,  Thomas,  Nicholas  and 
William,  and  that  Nicholas  was  a  Levant  merchant. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  there's  a  poem  in  the  '  Hesperides ' 
addressed  to  him,  and  it's  evident  that  he  had  travelled 
in  the  Holy  Land." 

"  I  don't  think  you've  much  of  a  disappointment  to 
complain  of.  There  must  be  some  record  of  the  Lord 
Mayor.  Why  not  try  the  Guildhall  library  ?  The  offi- 
cials there  don't  mind  what  trouble  they  take.  They'll 
soon  put  you  on  his  track." 

"  Oh,  but  that  isn't  all.  I  thought  I'd  go  and  have 
a  look  at  the  will  itself,  and  see  if  I  could  make  anything 
out  of  that.  I  got  it  at  last,  but  I'm  afraid  I  gave  a  lot 
of  trouble." 

"  Could  you  read  it — it's  in  court  hand ;  isn't  it  ?  " 

Mr.  Fairfield  gave  his  right  eye  another  rub.  "  It 
was  a  devil  of  a  business,"  he  said.  "  At  first  I  could 
make  nothing  of  it,  but  by  sticking  to  it  like  a  limpet, 
I  found  I  could  guess  at  some  of  the  short  words  ;  and 
working  on  by  degrees,  I  managed  to  get  some  notion 
of  the  hang  of  the  thing.  My  right  eye  pretty  well 
struck  work  just  before  I  finished,  and  I  was  dead-tired, 
for  I  had  to  stand  up  all  the  time."  My  friend  stretched 
out  his  long  legs  and  straightened  his  back  as  he  said 
this. 


286    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  What  I  hoped  for  was  to  find  some  mention  of 
Herrick,"  he  resumed.  "  That  was  where  the  disap- 
pointment came  in." 

"  Did  you  find  nothing  at  all  ?  " 

Mr.  Fairfield's  eyes  were  half-shut  as  he  watched  me 
dust  the  teacups.  "  I  found  a  little,"  he  said. 

"  There's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  smoke,"  I  re- 
marked. I  was  beginning  to  feel  a  little  interested  in 
his  amateur  record-hunting,  though  I  thought  it  unlikely 
that  he  had  unearthed  anything  new. 

"  I  found,"  he  began,  as  soon  as  his  cigar  was  alight, 
and  he  had  got  his  notes  in  order;  "I  found  that  the 
will  mentioned  four  sons — my  son  Sir  William  Soame, 
Knight,  my  son  Stephen  Soame,  Thomas  Soame,  my 
third  son,  and  my  son  John  Soame.  Now  that  was 
something,  for  the  first  three  are  the  Sir  William,  Sir 
Thomas  and  Mr.  Stephen  of  the  '  Hesperides'.  They 
were  Herrick's  cousins." 

"  Very  satisfactory  indeed,"  I  said  encouragingly. 

"  Those  four  sons  got  a  lot  of  lands.  I  couldn't  make 
out  more  than  that,  and  I  didn't  try  to.  But  later  on, 
I  came  to  some  small  gifts.  These  were  very  interest- 
ing ;  for  among  them  was  to  Richard  Herrick,  a  cloak, 
to  Mr.  Baldwin,  a  cloak,  and  to  Nicholas  Herrick  a  ring. 
Now,  that  Nicholas  was  Herrick's  brother,  and  I  guess 
Baldwin  was  some  relation  of  the  poet's  maid  Prudence 
Baldwin.  She  is  named  in  several  little  verses  in  the 
*  Hesperides '.  One  is  on  her  sickness  and  another  is 
her  epitaph : — 

In  this  little  urn  is  laid 
Prudence  Baldwin  (once  my  maid) 
From  whose  happy  spark  here  let 
Spring  the  purple  violet. 

Herrick  must  have  missed  her  sorely ;  his  '  kind  Prew,' 
as  he  calls  her  somewhere,  was  one  of  the  props  of  his 
old  age." 

"You  don't  know  who  the  Eichard  was  ?  " 


RECORD  HUNTING  287 

Mr.  F airfield  shook  his  head.  "  I've  been  wonder- 
ing whether  I  made  a  mistake  about  him.  I  don't 
think  the  name  could  have  been  Nicholas,  but  I  was 
very  muddled  by  the  time  I  got  so  far  as  that.  There 
was  a  codicil  farther  on ;  I  think  I  must  have  left  that 
for  another  day,  but  luckily  one  of  the  attendants  came 
up  to  see  what  I  was  puzzling  over  for  such  a  long 
time,  and  he  gave  me  a  little  assistance.  I've  got  a 
pretty  full  note  of  that  codicil.  You  can  read  it  for 
yourself." 

I  took  the  pencil  memorandum  which  my  friend 
handed  me.  It  read  as  follows  : — 

Upon  Saturday  ye  twoe  and  twentieth  of  May  one  thousand  six 
hundred  and  nineteen  about  twelve  of  the  clock  in  the  night  of  the 
same  day  Sir  Stephen  Soame  Knight  and  Alderman  of  London  lying 
sicke  upon  his  death  bed  at  Thurlowe  and  being  in  very  perfect 
memory  uttered  these  or  the  like  words  following  namely.  [He 
asked  "  Is  Brooke  here  ?  "  and  being  informed  that  he  was,  he  ex- 
pressed a  certain  wish  with  regard  to  his  will.]  And  presentlie 
after  that  he  said  to  Sir  William  Soame,  Thomas  Soame,  John  Soame 
his  sons  standing  by  him  [certain  words].  And  moreover  he  sayd 
let  Nic  Herrick  have  twoe  hundred  pounds  for  seaven  years 
gratis.  [Witnessed  by  the  3  sons  and  Th.  Brooke.] 

"  Nicholas  Herrick  again  !  "  I  remarked.  "  I  dare- 
say the  old  man  wanted  to  give  him  a  helping  hand  in 
that  Levant  business.  The  whole  thing's  very  quaint." 

"  Isn't  it  ?  And  doesn't  it  bring  up  before  one  that 
scene  300  years  ago.  A  loan  of  £200,  gratis  for  seven 
years,  was  a  biggish  thing  in  those  days.  I  hope  Nicholas 
got  it.  Was  such  a  writing  of  any  effect  ?  It's  merely 
a  statement  of  what  a  man  said  on  his  deathbed." 

"  It  would  be  of  no  effect  now ;  I  think  it  was  what  was 
called  a  nuncupative  disposition,"  I  answered  learnedly. 

"  But  wasn't  it  of  any  effect  then?  " 

I  had  to  confess  that  I  did  not  know ;  but  feeling 
pretty  sure  that  "  Williams  on  Eeal  Property  "  would 
tell  me,  I  promised  to  look  into  the  point  when  I  had 
half  an  hour  to  spare. 

"  I've  a  great  mind  to  write  to  the  boss  of  your  Will 


288    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

Office,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield  before  taking  his  departure, 
"  and  ask  him  to  have  that  portrait  of  the  Lord  Mayor 
taken  out  of  the  book  and  framed.  It's  a  bit  damaged 
already,  and  every  one  who  turns  over  the  leaves  makes 
it  worse." 

"By  all  means,"  I  said.  "Whatever  happens  you 
will  be  treated  courteously ;  Sir  Francis  Jeune  knows 
something  about  old  records." 

My  faith  in  Joshua  Williams  proved  to  be  well  founded. 
Within  five  minutes  of  my  opening  his  "  Real  Pro- 
perty," that  pelucid  writer  had  made  plain  to  me  the 
general  bearing  of  the  law  as  to  wills  in  the  reign  of 
James  I.  After  this,  I  amused  myself  for  half  an  hour 
by  turning  over  the  quaint  pages  of  an  older  writer, 
whose  book  forms  part  of  my  slender  store  of  legal 
curiosities ;  and  thus  fortified  I  was  able  to  greet  Mr. 
Fairfield  with  a  brave  show  of  learning  when  he  next 
presented  himself  in  Gray's  Inn. 

"  Nicholas  Herrick  got  his  loan  all  right,"  said  I, 
taking  down  the  ancient  authority ;  "  this  is  how  the 
law  stood  in  1619  : — 

"Nuncupative  Testament  is  when  the  testator  without  any  writ- 
ing doeth  declare  his  will  before  a  sufficient  number  of  witnesses. 
.  .  .  And  a  nuncupative  testament  is  as  of  great  force  and  efficacie 
(except  for  his  lands  tenements  and  hereditaments)  as  a  written 
testament.  This  kind  of  testament  is  commonly  made  when  the 
testator  is  now  very  sick,  weak  and  past  all  hope  of  recoverie. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  anything  but  land  could  be  willed 
in  those  days  without  writing." 

"What's  the  date  of  that  book?"  asked  Mr.  Fair- 
field,  who  was  peering  over  my  shoulder. 
"  Fifteen  hundred  and  ninety." 
My  friend  whistled.     "  What's  its  name?  " 
"  That's   rather   a   serious    question,"   I    answered, 
turning  to  the  title-page ;   "  for  the  author  has  taken 
about  twenty  lines  of  print  to  set  it  out.     I  will  ven- 
ture on  an  abstract — '  A  Brief  Treatise  of  Testaments 
and  last   Willes  .  .  .  compiled  ...  by  the  Industrie 


"  SWINBURNE  ON  WILLS  "       289 

of  Henrie  Swinburn,  Bachelar  of  the  Civill  Law  .  .  . 
London.  Printed  by  John  Windet  1590.' ' 

"  Were  things  the  same  when  Shakespeare  made  his 
will,  as  when  that  book  was  written? " 

"  Exactly.  There  was  no  change  in  the  law  be- 
tween the  latter  end  of  Henry  the  Eighth's  reign  and 
the  middle  part  of  Charles  the  Second's." 

"  I'm  afraid  I've  put  you  to  a  great  deal  of  trouble — by- 
the-by,  my  right  eye  is  no  longer  inflamed."  Mr.  Fair- 
field  said  this  with  a  smile,  and  he  stretched  out  his 
hand  for  the  volume. 

"  Do  you  suppose  Shakespeare's  solicitor  knew  this 
book  in  sixteen  hundred  and  sixteen?"  he  asked,  after 
he  had  studied  the  title  and  read  aloud  the  biblical  text 
which  adorns  it. 

"  I  haven't  the  faintest  conception  of  what  a  solicitor's 
equipment  was  in  sixteen  hundred  and  sixteen.  I  dare- 
say his  books  were  nearly  all  manuscript,  but  it  seems 
to  me  barely  possible  that  he  hadn't  some  knowledge 
of  Swinburne.  It  had  been  published  five-and-twenty 
years,  and  it  must  have  been  very  well  known  in  the 
profession.  It's  a  wonderful  book  for  simplicity  and 
clearness,  considering  all  things,  and  the  amount  of 
ground  it  covers  is  extraordinary.  I  think  it  must  have 
been  the  leading  authority  on  wills." 

"  If  I  were  to  try  and  read  it,  could  I  make  head  or 
tail  of  it?"  demanded  Mr.  Fairfield. 

"  I  don't  think  you'd  find  a  line  in  it  you  couldn't 
understand.  Take  it  and  try !  I  don't  warrant  it  in- 
teresting— only  comprehensible." 

"  I'm  really  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  trusting  me 
with  it.  The  truth  is,  I  can't  resist  the  temptation  of 
looking  through  the  book  that  was  the  leading  authority 
when  Shakespeare's  will  was  made." 

"  I've  been  following  up  what  you  said  about  Sheridan 

the  other  morning,"  remarked  Mr.  Fairfield,  after  we 

had  settled  down  to  the  discussion  of  our  tea  and  biscuits. 

"  I  thought  I  was   pretty  well  up  in    Sheridan's  life, 

19 


290    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

but  it  was  news  to  me  that  he  had  harangued  Lord 
Eldon." 

"  I  came  across  a  statement  somewhere  that  Lincoln's 
Inn  Hall  was  crowded  to  hear  Sheridan  address  the 
Chancellor,  like  Drury  Lane  when  Mrs.  Siddons  played 
Lady  Macbeth.  That  was  my  only  authority.  I  hope 
it  was  trustworthy." 

"  Oh,  yes !  it  was  right  enough.  I  had  a  lot  of 
trouble  to  get  at  the  facts,  but  I  managed  it  at  last. 
I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Sheridan's  biographers 
have  rather  shirked  that  episode  in  his  career.  I  don't 
much  blame  them;  for  certainly  it  was  a  mixed-up 
business,  but  they  might  have  given  the  date  of  the  year 
right." 

"  What  was  it  all  about?  " 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  I  fully  understand  it,  but  the  sum 
and  substance  of  it  was  this.  An  attempt  was  made  to 
take  the  control  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre  out  of  the 
hands  of  Sheridan  and  his  co-proprietors.  The  case 
came  on  before  Lord  Eldon  again  and  again ;  and  in 
the  end  an  arrangement  was  come  to  for  the  receipts 
being  properly  dealt  with.  The  landlord  was  to  be  paid 
first,  then  the  rates,  then  the  managers,  actors,  servants 
and  tradespeople,  and  so  on  through  a  tremendous  string 
of  directions." 

"  But  that  doesn't  sound  like  anything  very  important 
to  a  biographer." 

"  Perhaps  not ;  but  the  evidence  seems  to  have  been 
very  damaging  to  Sheridan's  character.  He  was  on  the 
down  grade  before  he  got  into  Chancery,  but  I  think 
those  proceedings  were  the  beginning  of  the  public  dis- 
repute into  which  he  fell.  His  friends  tried  to  make 
out  that  he  had  secured  a  great  triumph ;  but  that  was 
all  bunkum." 

"  Did  he  fight  the  case  himself?  " 

"  Well,  he  did  and  he  didn't.  He  had  the  Solicitor- 
General  and  two  other  lawyers,  but  he  wanted  to  be 
heard  himself,  and  the  Lord  Chancellor  consented.  By- 


SHERIDAN  AND  LORD  ELDON    291 

the-by,  that  Solicitor-General  was  afterwards  the  Prime 
Minister  whom  Bellingham  shot — Spencer  Perceval. 
Sheridan  was  on  his  legs  pretty  often  during  the  pro- 
ceedings and  there  was  one  great  oration.  That  was 
when  the  Old  Hall  was  so  crowded." 

"  Did  you  wade  through  the  speech?  " 

"  No ;  I'm  not  an  admirer  of  Sheridan's  oratory. 
There's  always  a  fly  in  his  ointment — there's  something 
rancid  about  it.  I  read  the  end  of  the  speech,  though ; 
that's  dreadfully  rancid." 

"  I've  got  a  note  of  it,"  he  continued,  "  and  the  effect 
of  it  is  this.  After  dwelling  upon  the  disadvantages 
and  temptations  of  an  uncertain  and  fluctuating  income, 
he  states  that  months  before  the  present  contention 
arose,  he  took  measures  to  place  himself  in  the  situation 
of  having  an  ascertained  and  limited  income ;  and  he 
goes  on  to  declare  that  he  means  to  continue  in  that 
situation  until  every  debt  has  been  paid,  every  demand 
satisfied  and  all  his  property  completely  disencumbered. 
That's  pretty  good  for  Sheridan ;  and  now  listen  to  the 
final  flourish — Till  that  moment  arrives,  I  shall  live  in 
retirement  with  that  spirit  of  undaunted  independence, 
which  as  a  public  and  private  man  I  trust  has  ever 
distinguished  me." 

"Queer  stuff,  isn't  it?"  he  resumed,  encouraged  by 
my  laughter;  "and  just  think  how  the  Chancellor 
must  have  been  tickled  !  He  knew  all  about  Sheridan. 
They  had  sat  on  opposite  sides  of  the  House  of 
Commons  for  sixteen  years." 

"  The  wonder  is  Sheridan  didn't  know  better  than 
to  flaunt  that  playhouse  fustian  before  Lord  Eldon." 

"  You  can't  help  laughing,  and  yet  there's  some- 
thing almost  pitiful  in  the  spectacle  of  a  man  trying 
to  play  one  game  by  the  rules  of  another.  Do  you 
remember  the  figure  Gladstone  cut  when  he  tackled 
Huxley,  and  argued  with  him  orator-fashion?" 

"  How  did  Eldon  deal  with  the  speech  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  He  gave  Sheridan  a  most  awful  dressing  down  in  a 


292    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

quiet  way.     It's  what  he  said  that  makes  the  incident 
so  interesting  from  a  literary  point  of  view." 

By  this  time  Mr.  F airfield's  enthusiasm  was  rising 
and  his  memoranda  were  very  much  in  evidence.  "  Just 
listen  to  this  bit  near  the  end  : — 

"  That  was  not  the  place  where  as  an  individual  he  (the  Lord 
Chancellor)  could  recommend  to  Mr.  Sheridan  prudence  and  at- 
tention, but  he  could  not  help  directing  his  attention  to  the  con- 
clusion of  Johnson's  Life  of  one  of  the  poets,  where  he  says  that 
his  object  is  gained  if  he  has  shewn  that  if  negligence  and  irregularity 
are  long  continued,  information  becomes  useless,  wit  ridiculous  and 
genius  contemptible.  Negligence  and  irregularity  must  be  long 
continued,  indeed,  before  such  information,  such  wit  and  such 
genius  as  Mr.  Sheridan's  could  ever  become  useless,  ridiculous  or 
contemptible.  He  hoped  he  did  not  go  beyond  his  province,  when 
he  said  he  had  seen  in  this  case  negligence  and  irregularity  beyond 
all  parallel." 

"  I  doubt  if  there's  any  other  instance  on  record  of 
Eldon  quoting  an  author  in  that  way,"  said  I;  "but 
where's  the  special  literary  interest?" 

"  Don't  you  see  he  rebukes  Sheridan  out  of  the 
mouth  of  Johnson?  Johnson  had  been  a  friend  of 
Sheridan  ;  it  was  he  who  introduced  Sheridan  into  The 
Club.  It  was  almost  an  hereditary  friendship ;  for  at 
one  time  Johnson  and  Thomas  Sheridan,  the  father, 
had  been  on  intimate  terms.  And  Johnson  had  been  a 
friend  of  Eldon  too,  and  a  great  friend  of  Eldon's 
brother,  the  Sir  William  Scott  who  was  afterwards 
made  Lord  Stowell.  Lord  Stowell  was  a  member  of 
The  Club — he  was  the  father  of  it  when  he  died.  It 
was  he,  by-the-by,  who  carried  Johnson  into  Scotland." 

"  It's  interesting  in  a  sense,"  I  admitted  doubtfully  ; 
"  because  it  brings  the  three  together — Johnson,  Sheri- 
dan and  Eldon." 

"  You  haven't  got  it  all  yet.  Savage  was  the  poet 
Johnson  was  referring  to — those  lines  are  the  conclusion 
of  the  '  Life ' — and  what  makes  the  incident  so  inter- 
esting to  me  is  this  :  there  was  something  of  a  special 
connexion  between  Johnson  and  Sheridan,  as  regards 


"SWINBURNE  ON  WILLS"       293 

Savage.  Years  after  Savage's  death,  his  tragedy  of 
'  Sir  Thomas  Overbury '  was  brought  out  at  Covent 
Garden,  and  Sheridan  wrote  a  prologue,  and  introduced 
into  it  a  double-barrelled  compliment  to  the  '  Life '  and 
to  the  Dictionary  : — 

So  pleads  the  tale,  that  gives  to  future  times 
The  son's  misfortunes  and  the  parent's  crimes. 
There  shall  his  fame  (if  owned  to-night)  survive, 
Fixed  by  the  hand  that  makes  our  language  live." 

"  Bravo,"  said  I.  "I  doubt  if  Macaulay  himself 
was  a  better  Boswellian  than  you  are." 

When  Mr.  Fairfield  brought  back  "  Swinburne  on 
Wills,"  he  laid  it  down  on  my  table  without  a  word. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  him? "  I  inquired. 

"  A  very  luminous  author,  sir.  His  explanation  of 
the  difference  between  a  will  and  a  testament  is  nothing 
less  than  convincing." 

"  What  is  the  difference?  " 

"  If  a  man  doesn't  appoint  an  executor,  his  will  is 
only  a  will ;  if  he  does  appoint  an  executor,  it  is  also  a 
testament." 

"But  that  sounds  pretty  simple;  and  not  of  much 
practical  importance.  It's  only  a  question  of  name 
after  all." 

"  That  old  gentleman  thought  differently.  He  states 
it  over  and  over  again.  He  can't  get  away  from  it ;  it's 
always  cropping  up." 

"  Perhaps  it  was  the  custom  of  lawyers  three  hundred 
years  ago  to  emphasize  anything  they  thought  impor- 
tant by  saying  it  more  than  once." 

Mr.  Fairfield's  eye  twinkled.  "  How  things  must 
have  altered,"  said  he,  "  if  that  was  ever  a  legal  custom." 

"Have  you  found  out  anything  from  the  book?"  I 
inquired.  "  Did  Shakespeare's  solicitor  know  it?  " 

"  I  must  decline  to  answer  for  him ;  but  I'm  very 
much  afraid  Captain  Cuttle  didn't." 


294    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  He  may  have  read  it  and  forgotten  it,"  he  went  on  ; 
"  but  it's  very  unlikely  ;  for  he  didn't  know  what  a  testa- 
ment was.  Do  you  remember  the  packet  Sol  Gills  left 
behind  him  ? — 

"'  MY  DEAR  NED  CUTTLE. — Enclosed  is  my  will !'  The  Captain 
turned  it  over,  with  a  doubtful  look — 'and  Testament. — Where's 
the  Testament?'  said  the  Captain,  instantly  impeaching  the  ill- 
fated  Grinder.  ' What  have  you  done  with  that,  my  lad ? '  'I 
never  see  it,'  whimpered  Bob.  '  Don't  keep  on  suspecting  an  in- 
nocent lad,  Captain.  I  never  touched  the  Testament.'  Captain 
Cuttle  shook  his  head,  implying  that  somebody  must  be  made 
answerable  for  it. 

What  would  you  say  if  I  wrote  a  pamphlet — '  Some 
reasons  for  thinking  that  Captain  Cuttle  was  unac- 
quainted with  "  Swinburne  on  Wills  "  '  ?  "  asked  my 
friend,  looking  up  from  his  memoranda. 

"  Whatever  I  might  say,  I  should  think  you  were 
mad." 

"  If  you  had  been  turning  over  pamphlets  on  Shake- 
speare as  I  have  all  this  morning,  you  wouldn't  see 
anything  very  outrageous  in  a  man  speculating  whether 
Captain  Cuttle  had  or  had  not  read  that  book  of  yours." 

"  I'm  sorry  Swinburne  bored  you  so." 

"  He  didn't  bore  me,  except  when  he  was  explaining 
over  and  over  again  what  a  testament  was.  And  to 
tell  the  truth,  I  didn't  read  very  much  of  him.  Here 
and  there  he  made  me  laugh.  It  tickles  one  to  read 
nowadays  that  a  poor  man,  being  likewise  an  honest 
man,  was  not  forbidden  to  be  a  witness,  and  that  '  a 
manifest  usurer '  was  not  allowed  to  make  a  testament." 

"  A  good  many  bankers  would  die  without  executors 
if  that  were  the  law  now,"  I  remarked.  "  So  you  got 
no  new  light  on  Shakespeare?" 

"  I  got  a  handful  of  hard  sense — another  reminder 
that  all  theorizing  about  him  and  his  doings  is  mere 
foolishness  unless  you're  an  expert.  Now,  I  did  feel 
safe  in  trying  to  picture  him  signing  his  will  with  those 
five  witnesses  round  him.  Not  a  bit  of  it !  He  may 
have  signed  it  all  by  himself,  and  got  his  friends  to 


SHAKESPEARE  AND  THE  LAW    295 

write  their  names  as  witnesses,  as  and  when  they 
dropped  in  to  see  him  afterwards." 

"'Witnes  to  the  publishing  hereof  is  all  the  will 
says,  and  the  five  names  follow,"  continued  Mr.  Fair- 
field,  producing  a  much  annotated  copy. 

"  But  surely,  that  may  mean  he  signed  it  in  their 
presence." 

"  Yes,  it  may,  or  it  may  not ;  but  that's  a  very  differ- 
ent thing  from  a  certainty.  It  seems  to  me  that  the 
will  would  have  been  perfectly  good  if  Shakespeare  had 
merely  signed  or  even  sealed  it,  all  by  his  lone  self,  and 
then  put  it  away  in  a  chest  without  a  soul  seeing  it.  I 
shall  have  to  know  a  lot  more  than  I  do  now,  before  I 
feel  sure  that  '  witnes  to  the  publishing,'  meant  witness 
to  the  signing.  No,  sir,  I  retire  once  and  for  all  from 
the  speculating  business  as  regards  Shakespeare." 

"  That  first  witness,  Francis  Collins,  was  Shake- 
speare's solicitor,"  he  went  on.  "  Shakespeare  left  him  a 
legacy." 

"  Just  like  him !  "  I  exclaimed  with  enthusiasm ; 
"  what  else  could  you  expect  of  Shakespeare? " 

"  Thirteen  pounds  six  and  eightpence — the  biggest 
legacy  outside  his  own  family,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield, 
ignoring  my  question.  "  Do  you  think  he  was  ever  in 
the  law  himself?  "  he  asked  suddenly. 

"  Mr.  Lee  says  he  wasn't." 

"  I  know  that.  He  says  that  Shakespeare's  accurate 
use  of  legal  terms  may  be  attributable  in  part  to  his 
observation  of  the  many  legal  processes  in  which  his 
father  was  involved,  and  in  part  to  early  intercourse 
with  members  of  the  Inns  of  Court.  That  doesn't 
sound  very  convincing  to  me,  but  he  backs  it  up  by 
saying  that  legal  terminology  abounded  in  all  plays  and 
poems  of  the  time." 

"  That  doesn't  nearly  cover  the  ground,"  said  I,  now 
thoroughly  interested.  "  It's  very  little  to  the  point 
that  A,  B,  C  and  D,  his  contemporaries,  also  used 
legal  terms " 


296    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  Possibly  they  were  lawyers,"  interrupted  Mr.  Fair- 
field  ;  "  law  was  a  fashionable  study  in  Elizabeth's  reign." 

"  No,  no !  let  us  assume  that  Mr.  Lee  began  by  satis- 
fying himself  that  the  contemporaries  he  relies  upon 
— and  especially  Barnabe  Barnes — were  not  lawyers  or 
law  students.  If  they  were,  his  statement  wouldn't  be 
worth  discussion." 

"  True ;  for  it  would  help  to  prove  that  Shakespeare 
was  a  lawyer." 

"  No  layman  is  competent  to  sit  in  judgment  on  the 
question,"  I  resumed.  "  He  can't  estimate  the  quantum 
of  Shakespeare's  legal  knowledge ;  and  as  regards  the 
contemporaries,  I  put  their  legal  terminology  on  one  side. 
Nearly  all  novelists  have  dabbled  in  legal  matters,  but 
that's  no  evidence  that  Scott  wasn't  a  lawyer." 

"  I  think  I  follow  you,"  said  my  friend.  "  You 
mean  that  Shakespeare  must  be  judged  entirely  by  his 
own  writings,  and  his  legal  knowledge  can  only  be 
judged  by  a  lawyer." 

"  Exactly ;  but  it  follows  that  in  order  to  ascertain 
the  high-water  mark  of  legal  knowledge  among  laymen 
in  Shakespeare's  time,  the  legal  expert  would  have  to 
consider  the  writings  of  his  non-legal  contemporaries." 

"  That's  a  large  order." 

"  Immense.  The  expert  would  have  to  begin  with 
his  mind  '  washed  clean  from  opinions,'  and  he  would 
have  to  saturate  himself  with  the  law  and  practice  as 
they  stood  300  years  ago ;  so  that  upon  coming  upon 
anything  legal  he  could  decide  whether  it  showed 
knowledge  or  ignorance.  I  think  I  can  guess  how 
much  knowledge  he  would  find  behind  the  legal  termin- 
ology of  those  contemporaries ;  but  you  and  I  are  not 
experts,  so  we  won't  theorize." 

"  Have  you  read  Lord  Campbell's  little  book  ?  "  asked 
my  friend. 

"  Yes ;  years  ago.  I'd  been  reading  the  '  Sonnets '  very 
carefully,  and  I  was  so  staggered  by  one  or  two  of  the 
legal  references,  that  I  got  that  book  to  see  what  Lord 


SHAKESPEARE  AND  THE  LAW    297 

Campbell  had  to  say  about  Shakespeare's  legal  acquire- 
ments." 

"  And  what  did  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

"For  the  time  being,  I  felt  completely  satisfied  that 
Shakespeare  had  passed  years  in  the  law.  Lord  Camp- 
bell's own  doubts  seemed  to  me  almost  fantastic  in  the 
face  of  his  proofs.  But  later  on,  when  I  read  Mr.  Lee's 
'  Life,'  I  felt  a  little  shaken." 

"  I've  read  Campbell's  book,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield. 
"  It's  wonderfully  convincing ;  and  there  are  some 
letters  bound  up  in  one  of  the  Museum  copies  that 
carry  the  case  even  farther.  Campbell  was  amazed  by 
the  number  of  Shakespeare's  legal  phrases  and  allusions. 
As  he  wasn't  an  expert  in  Elizabethan  literature,  that 
doesn't  go  for  much ;  but  he  says  the  phrases  and  al- 
lusions are  always  correct.  He  must  have  been  some- 
thing of  an  authority  on  that  point." 

"  He  was  a  splendid  authority ;  we  shall  never  see 
another  like  him.  As  I  understand  the  matter,  a  great 
deal  of  the  law  and  practice  of  Elizabeth's  time  came 
down  to  Campbell's  day.  He  started  on  the  investiga- 
tion with  an  equipment  beyond  the  reach  of  any  modern 
lawyer.  He  had  learnt  his  business  under  the  old 
system,  and  he'd  practised  under  it.  That's  a  very 
different  thing  from  getting  it  up  by  reading  the  old 
books.  And  Campbell  was  a  man  of  extraordinarily 
active  mind,  as  well  as  a  very  sound  lawyer." 

"  And  the  old  chap  read  through  the  whole  of  the 
plays  in  order  to  write  that  book,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield 
musingly :  "  yes,  I  agree  with  you,  we  have  to  reckon 
with  Campbell." 

"  And  we  have  to  reckon  with  Macaulay  too,"  he 
continued.  "  He  was  a  trained  lawyer,  and  he  was  fully 
convinced  that  Shakespeare  as  a  young  man  had  been 
in  the  lower  ranks  of  the  profession." 

"  Ah,  but  he  meant  in  a  responsible  position — what 
we  now  call  a  managing  clerk,  in  fact.  That's  the 
theory  Campbell  was  inclined  to  adopt.  A  mere  under- 


298    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

ling  might,  in  a  year  or  two,  pick  up  technical  phrases 
and  practice-rules  and  other  crumbs  of  that  sort ;  and 
he  might  learn  a  lot  about  lawyers  from  the  personal 
standpoint,  but  he  wouldn't  pick  up  law.  Take  Dickens' 
case,  for  instance.  He  had  at  least  eighteen  months 
in  solicitors'  offices ;  but  could  his  writings  give  any 
expert  the  impression  that  he  was  a  professional 
lawyer?" 

"  But  there's  a  lot  of  law  in  '  Pickwick '  and  '  Bleak 
House,'  and  there's  the  trial  in  the  '  Old  Curiosity  Shop,' 
and  the  trial  in  the  '  Tale  of  Two  Cities,'  "  urged  Mr. 
Fairfield,  not  at  all  disposed  to  concede  any  point  against 
his  literary  idol. 

"  The  lawyers  in  Dickens  are  first-rate ;  but  the  law  is 
nothing.  There's  next  to  none,  I  think,  in  '  Pickwick  ' ; 
and  there's  nothing  in  the  Chancery  parts  of  '  Bleak 
House '  that  a  layman  couldn't  have  got  out  of  pam- 
phlets and  such  like.  The  trial  in  the  '  Old  Curiosity 
Shop '  is  defective  from  a  technical  standpoint,  and  the 
trial  in  '  Pickwick '  is  simply  grotesque.  Dickens  was 
riper  when  he  wrote  the  '  Tale  of  Two  Cities '.  There 
the  Old  Bailey  proceedings  are  a  masterpiece.  But  he 
went  to  Pitt's  treason  trials  for  them.  There's  no 
personal  experience  behind  the  writing." 

"  I  suppose  you'd  rejoice  exceedingly  if  it  were  proved 
that  Shakespeare  did  spend  those  unrecorded  years  in 
the  law?" 

"  '  I  hold  every  man  a  debtor  to  his  profession ' — 
that's  Bacon's  phrase — so  of  course  I  should  be  glad  of 
anything  that  threw  such  a  lustre  on  mine." 

"  The  captain  jewel  in  the  carcanet,"  said  my  friend 
musingly.  "  Aye,  aye,  he  certainly  would  be  that ! 
But  Shakespeare  or  no  Shakespeare,"  he  went  on,  as  he 
lay  back  in  his  chair,  and  began  to  tick  off  the  names 
on  his  fingers,  "your  profession  doesn't  come  off  badly 
— Bacon  himself  —  Fielding  —  Scott  —  Macaulay  :  all 
proper,  work-a-day  lawyers.  And  the  old  antic  can 
make  some  sort  of  a  claim  to  Dickens  and  Thackeray. 


THE  BACON  THEORY  299 

I  won't  bother  about  the  littler  men ;  though  it  seems 
hard  to  leave  out  Cowper  and  Boswell." 

"  They  were  all  members  of  the  Bar,  except  Dickens," 
I  said,  laughing,  "  and  even  he  joined  an  Inn  of  Court ; 
but  it's  natural  enough  for  a  layman  to  draw  no  distinc- 
tion between  the  two  branches." 

"  You  could  claim  Chatterton,  anyhow,  if  Lambert 
of  Bristol  hadn't  cancelled  his  indentures " 

"  We  call  them  articles,"  I  hinted. 

"  I  know  you  do,  but  they  were  indentures  in  those 
days,  and  the  apprentice  served  for  seven  years." 

"  Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  seven  years  was  the 
term  :  Boswell  says  so." 

"  '  Nemo  repente  turpissimus  fuit,'  "  murmured  Mr. 
Fairfield,  "  ' — it  takes  seven  years  to  make  an  attorney.' 
Isn't  that  real  wit?  I  never  feel  sure  which  is  the 
better,  that,  or  '  The  road  to  hell  is  paved  with  good 
intentions '." 

"  I'm  rather  partial  myself  to  the  joke  about  the 
two  insects.  It  wasn't  easy  to  settle  the  point  of  pre- 
cedency between  them,  you  may  remember." 

"  Oh,  yes !  I  remember  that."  And  my  friend  be- 
ginning— "  '  Do  you  reckon  Derrick  or  Smart  the  best 
poet,' "  pursued  the  quotation  to  the  bitter  end. 

"  I  was  once  a  little  bitten  by  that  Bacon  theory," 
said  Mr.  Fairfield  shamefacedly,  as  he  began  to  gather 
up  his  papers,  and  his  eye  fell  upon  the  will. 

"'My  country  —  right  or  wrong,'  is  an  excellent 
maxim." 

The  good  patriot  responded  with  a  laugh.  "  I  never 
considered  it  from  that  standpoint,  but  now  you  men- 
tion it,  I  suppose  we  were  the  original  culprits.  Well, 
well,  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic  can  claim  to  have  had 
a  deal  in  the  wooden  nutmegs  and  the  clocks  that 
wouldn't  figure,  at  one  time  or  another !  Were  you 
ever  bitten  ?  " 

"  No.  The  bait  wasn't  very  tempting  to  a  legal  per- 
son. When  you  learnt  that  no  man  could  read 


300    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

Donnelly's  cryptogram  but  Donnelly  himself,  you  lost 

interest  in  it.     And  as  for  Mrs.  Gallup's  cypher 

"That  didn't  get  a  fair  show,"  broke  in  the  con- 
vert. "  I  was  sane  long  before  then,  and  I  thought  we 
were  going  to  have  some  real  fun  when  Mr.  Mallock 
took  the  field.  It  was  too  bad  of  Mr.  Marston  to  prick 
the  bubble  so  early : — 

Sweet  rose,  fair  flower,  untimely  plucked,  soon  vaded 
Plucked  in  the  bud  and  vaded  in  the  spring  ! 

What  a  game  it  was!  Even  the  stalwarts  shied  a 
little  when  they  were  asked  to  believe  that  Bacon 
wrote  Pope's  '  Homer'." 

"  We've  heard  the  last  of  the  cyphermongers,"  said  I. 

"  That's  what  comes  of  over-sugaring  the  punch. 
But  we  haven't  heard  the  last  of  the  theory.  I  know 
now,  that  Bacon  no  more  wrote  the  plays  and  poems 
than  I  did,  but  I  can  feel  a  sort  of  sympathy  with  the 
Baconians  all  the  same.  Unless  something  turns  up 
to  show  how  those  unrecorded  years  were  spent,  we 
shall  never  be  able  to  reconcile  the  young  Shakespeare 
of  the  London  playhouses  with  the  country  lad  who 
married  Anne  Hathaway." 

Mr.  Fairfield  wound  up  with  a  shake  of  the  head ; 
and  he  began  to  glance  through  the  type-written  pages 
of  the  will,  as  if  to  make  sure  that  there  was  no  note 
or  query  which  called  for  my  legal  aid.  Presently  he 
looked  up,  a  broad  grin  on  his  face. 

"  How  would  it  do  to  suggest  that  the  real  author 
was  Francis  Collins  the  solicitor,  and  that  Shakespeare 
left  him  that  legacy  as  hush  money?  " 


SHAKESPEARE'S  WILL  301 


POSTSCE1PT 

EPITOME  OF  THE  WILL  OF  WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE, 
OF  STRATFORD-UPON-AVON  IN  THE  COUNTY  OF 
WARWICK,  GENTLEMAN 

Will  dated  25th  March,  1616. 

Legacy  of  £150  to  the  Testator's  daughter  Judith  :  £100  of  the 
same  to  be  paid  in  discharge  of  her  marriage  portion  within  a  year 
after  the  Testator's  decease,  with  interest  at  ten  per  cent,  from  the 
date  of  his  decease,  and  £50,  the  residue,  to  be  paid  on  the  legatee 
surrendering,  or  giving  security  to  surrender,  to  the  Testator's 
daughter  Susanna  Hall  and  her  heirs  for  ever,  the  legatee's  interest 
in  a  copyhold  tenement,  holden  [by  the  Testator]  of  the  Manor 
of  Rowington. 

Further  legacy  of  £150  to  the  said  daughter  Judith  if  she  or 
any  issue  of  hers  should  be  living  at  the  end  of  three  years  after 
the  date  of  the  Testator's  will.  Interest  at  the  rate  of  ten  per 
cent,  to  be  paid  to  her  in  the  meantime. 

In  the  event  of  the  death  of  the  said  daughter  Judith  within  the 
said  period,  without  issue,  £100,  part  of  the  said  legacy,  given  to 
the  Testator's  niece  [really  granddaughter]  Elizabeth  Hall,  and 
£50,  the  residue,  given  to  the  Testator's  executors  upon  trust  for 
his  sister  Joan  Harte,  for  life,  with  remainder  to  her  children  in 
equal  shares. 

In  the  event  of  the  said  daughter  Judith,  or  any  of  her  issue, 
being  alive  at  the  end  of  the  said  three  years,  then  the  said  £150 
to  be  invested  by  the  Testator's  executors  and  overseers.  The 
capital  not  to  be  paid  to  her  during  coverture,  but  the  income  to  be 
paid  to  her  for  life,  and,  after  her  death,  the  legacy  to  be  paid  to 
her  children,  or,  failing  children,  to  her  executors  or  assigns. 

Proviso  that  if  such  husband  as  the  said  daughter  Judith  should 
be  married  to  at  the  end  of  the  said  three  years,  should  assure  to 
her  and  her  issue,  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  Testator's  executors 
and  overseers,  lands  answerable  to  the  portion  given  unto  her  by 
the  Testator's  will,  then  the  said  £150  to  be  paid  to  such  husband. 

Legacy  to  the  Testator's  said  sister  Joan  of  twenty  pounds  and 
all  his  wearing  apparel. 

Devise  to  the  said  sister  Joan,  for  life,  of  the  house  in  Stratford 
occupied  by  her,  subject  to  the  yearly  rent  of  a  shilling. 

Legacies  of  Five  pounds  apiece  to  the  said  sister  Joan's  three 
sons. 

Legacy  to  the  said  Elizabeth  Hall  of  all  the  Testator's  plate, 
except  his  broad  silver  and  gilt  bowl. 

Further  legacies  as  follows,  namely — to  the  poor  of  Stratford,  ten 
pounds ;  to  Mr.  Thomas  Combe,  the  Testator  s  sword ;  to  Thomas 
Russell,  Esq.,  five  pounds  ;  to  Francis  Collins  of  the  Borough  of 
Warwick,  gentleman,  thirteen  pounds  six  shillings  and  eight  pence  ; 


302    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

to  Hamlett  Sadler,  twenty -six  shillings  and  eight  pence,  to  buy  him 
a  ring ;  to  William  Reynoldes,  gentleman,  twenty-six  shillings  and 
eight  pence,  to  buy  him  a  ring ;  to  the  Testator's  godson  William 
Walker,  twenty  shillings  in  gold ;  to  Anthony  Nashe,  gentleman, 
twenty-six  shillings  and  eight  pence  ;  to  Mr.  John  Nashe,  twenty- 
six  shillings  and  eight  pence  ;  and  to  the  Testator's  "fellowes  "  John 
Hemynges,  Richard  Burbage  and  Henry  Oundell,  twenty-six  shil- 
lings and  eight  pence  apiece,  to  buy  them  rings. 

Devise  to  the  Testator's  daughter  Susanna  Hall  (for  better  en- 
abling her  to  perform  his  will  and  towards  the  performance  thereof) 
of  the  "  capital  messuage,  or  tenement,  with  the  appurtenances  in 
Stratford  aforesaid,  called  the  New  Place,"  wherein  the  Testator 
then  dwelt,  and  all  other  his  lands,  tenements  and  hereditaments 
whatsoever,  for  life,  with  remainder  to  the  first,  second,  third, 
fourth,  fifth,  sixth  and  seventh  sons  of  the  said  Susanna  Hall  suc- 
cessively, in  tail  male. 

In  default  of  such  issue  "  the  said  premises  to  be  and  remain  " 
to  the  Testator's  "said  niece  Hall,"  and  her  heirs  male. 

In  default  of  such  issue  of  the  said  Elizabeth  Hall,  the  said  pre- 
mises to  be  and  remain  to  the  Testator's  daughter  Judith  and  her 
heirs  male. 

And  in  default  of  such  last- mentioned  issue,  the  said  premises 
to  be  and  remain  to  the  Testator's  right  heirs. 

Legacy  to  the  Testator's  wife  of  his  second-best  bed  with  the 
furniture. 

Legacy  to  the  Testator's  said  daughter  Judith,  of  bis  broad 
silver  gilt  bowl. 

Gift  of  all  the  rest  of  the  Testator's  goods,  chattels,  leases,  plate, 
jewels  and  household  stuff  whatsoever,  after  payments  of  his  debts, 
legacies  and  funeral  expenses,  to  the  Testator's  son-in-law  John 
Hall,  gentleman,  and  the  Testator's  daughter  Susannah,  his  wife. 

Appointment  of  the  last-named  two  persons  as  executors  of  the 
will. 

Appointment  of  the  said  Thomas  Russell  and  Francis  Collins 
as  overseers  of  the  will. 

Revocation  of  all  former  wills. 

Will  signed  by  the  Testator  on  the  25th  of  March,  1616,  and  its 
publication  attested  by  five  witnesses. 


CHAPTEE  XXIV 

THE  BULL  HOTEL,  ROCHESTER :  I  AM  INVITED  TO 
STUDY  "EDWIN  DROOD" 

MB.  JAMES  C.  F AIRFIELD  stood  at  one  of  the  windows 
of  the  coffee-room  of  the  Bull  Hotel  at  Rochester,  and 
looked  out  upon  the  High  Street. 

"  The  old  red,  royal  Dover  road,"  he  said  compla- 
cently. "I'm  glad  to  see  it  again." 

"Is  it  really  the  old  Dover  road  ?  " 

"  No  doubt  about  that,  sir ;  it's  the  old  highway  from 
London  to  Canterbury  and  Dover.  Between  here  and 
London,  the  present  main  thoroughfare  deviates  a  bit 
from  the  old  way ;  so  as  to  pass  through  Gravesend,  I 
think.  And  a  little  beyond  us,  it  loops  out  to  the 
right  so  as  to  get  clear  of  Chatham  High  Street ;  but 
there's  no  deviation  here.  That  motor  omnibus  is 
running  in  the  same  track  that  folks  used  in  the  time 
of  William  the  Conqueror.  I  believe  I  might  carry  it 
back  to  the  Romans.  They  made  a  bridge  over  the 
Medway  here.  When  the  present  bridge  was  being 
built — it  stands  about  a  hundred  yards  to  our  left — they 
came  upon  the  piles  of  the  old  Roman  bridge." 

"  It's  a  very  narrow  road,"  I  remarked.  "  When 
two  omnibuses  are  abreast  there  doesn't  seem  to  be  an 
inch  to  spare ;  I  wonder  the  Corporation  doesn't  widen 
it." 

"  When  you've  once  walked  down  the  High  Street, 
you'll  be  ready  to  fall  on  your  knees  and  pray  they 
won't  do  anything  of  the  kind."  Mr.  F  airfield  spoke 
almost  angrily. 

303 


304    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  There  are  some  of  the  oldest  houses  in  England  on 
both  sides  of  the  way,"  he  went  on.  "  Surely  you 
wouldn't  have  them  pulled  down?  " 

"  So  long  as  the  road's  wide  enough  to  allow  me  to 
exercise  my  common-law  right  of  passage,  your  old 
houses  may  stand  until  the  crack  of  doom,"  said  I,  with 
lavish  generosity. 

"  What  is  the  common-law  right?  " 

"  To  pass  and  repass — to  use  the  road  as  a  highway. 
That  is  the  law  of  England  as  laid  down  in  the  leading 
case  of  Dovaston  v.  Payne.  You  will  find  it  in  Henry 
Blackstone's  Keports — I  can  show  it  you  at  Gray's  Inn." 

"  It's  a  grand  right,"  he  remarked  solemnly.  "  I'm 
afraid  Mr.  Winkle  strained  it  a  bit  when  he  got  on  that 
horse  of  his.  He  drifted  up  the  street  broadside  on." 

"  There's  nearly  half  an  hour  to  dinner  time  and  the 
daylight  will  hold  out  till  then,"  he  said,  a  little  later. 
"  Let  us  take  a  turn  between  the  showers." 

Mr.  F  airfield  had  pressed  me  to  spend  part  of  the 
Easter  vacation  at  Rochester.  I  had  at  first  demurred, 
on  the  ground  that  Easter  weather  was  always  treacher- 
ous ;  but  he  had  seemed  so  anxious  for  my  company 
that  I  had  at  length  given  way.  On  the  journey  down, 
the  rain  had  lashed  against  the  carriage  windows,  and 
we  had  driven  from  the  station  in  a  downpour.  But 
the  weather  had  cleared  since  we  settled  at  the  Bull,  so 
I  was  nothing  loth  to  take  a  stroll  before  dinner. 

"  We'll  just  potter  along  towards  Chatham,"  said  he. 

"  What's  that  red-brick  building  opposite?  "  I  asked, 
as  we  turned  out  of  the  hotel  gateway. 

"  That's  the  town-hall.  It  was  built  in  James  the 
Second's  time.  Hogarth  played  hopscotch  there  in 
1732.  I'm  glad  I  wasn't  one  of  the  party." 

"Why?" 

"  They  weren't  what  I  should  call  refined,  and  their 
method  of  feeding  was  positively  uncivilized.  They 
were  eating  and  drinking  at  all  sorts  of  odd  times." 

Before    that    stroll    ended,  I    had    come    round   to 


THE  BULL  AT  ROCHESTER     305 

my  friend's  view  that  Rochester  High  Street  must  not 
be  widened.  There  was  no  denying  the  picturesqueness 
of  the  old  houses. 

"  A  change  since  I  was  last  here !  "  was  my  guide's 
ejaculation,  as  we  came  on  a  gateway  just  past  the 
King's  Head  Hotel.  "That's  the  College  Gate.  It 
used  to  stand  between  two  houses.  They've  cleared 
one  away.  I  wish  they  hadn't.  I  admit  there's  a 
much  better  view  of  the  cathedral  and  the  keep ;  but 
this  is  Jasper's  gatehouse,  and  I'd  rather  it  had  been 
left  as  Dickens  knew  it.  But  we  won't  begin  to  talk 
about '  Edwin  Drood  '  until  after  dinner." 

"  Another  change  here,"  he  announced  a  little  farther 
on,  when  we  reached  a  gap  in  the  houses  and  stood  to 
admire  the  view  of  the  north  side  of  the  cathedral  which 
the  opening  afforded.  "  Well,  I  must  confess  this  is 
an  improvement.  The  Dean  and  Chapter  must  have 
screwed  their  courage  to  the  sticking-place  before  they 
went  to  the  expense  of  such  a  clearance  as  this." 

Our  progress  along  the  High  Street  was  very  slow, 
for  there  were  so  many  interesting  house  fronts  to  ex- 
amine. Mr.  Fairfield  could  not  pass  the  Corn  Exchange 
or  Watts'  Charity,  without  some  reference  to  their 
associations  with  Dickens ;  nor  could  he  pass  the  house 
opposite  to  the  Post  Office,  without  telling  me  that  it 
was  once  Sir  Richard  Head's,  and  that  through  the 
garden  behind,  James  II  had  stolen  away  to  the  river 
to  embark  for  France,  about  a  fortnight  after  he  had 
dropped  the  Great  Seal  into  the  Thames  at  Lambeth. 
Even  his  determination  not  to  refer  to  "  Edwin  Drood  " 
was  forgotten  almost  as  soon  as  it  was  uttered. 

"  There  are  the  old  houses  opposite  Eastgate  House," 
he  said,  pointing  to  some  houses  with  peaked  roofs  and 
overhanging  upper  storeys,  a  little  distance  ahead  of  us, 
and  at  the  same  time  beginning  a  diagonal  move  across 
the  road  in  their  direction ;  "  Mr.  Sapsea  lived  in  one 
of  those — and  his  father  before  him :  '  Rest  and  bless 
him ! ' " 
20 


306    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

We  did  not  give  much  attention  to  those  mediaeval 
relics  after  all ;  for  just  as  we  had  begun  to  examine 
them,  something  caught  my  friend's  eye  on  the  other 
side  of  the  way.  He  stopped  dead  and  fairly  whistled 
with  astonishment. 

"  Jee-rusalem  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  This  is  wonder- 
ful!" 

The  object  of  his  amazement  was  an  Elizabethan 
mansion  of  very  picturesque  appearance  and  in  excellent 
preservation.  One  side  abutted  on  the  roadway ;  and 
across  a  green  fore-court  railed  off  from  the  pavement, 
the  front  with  its  deep,  three-storeyed  bays,  two- 
storeyed  porch  and  staircase  turret  was  fully  visible  from 
where  we  stood. 

"  I  remember  now,  I  did  notice  in  the  newspapers 
that  the  Corporation  had  bought  it.  But  who  could 
have  imagined  they  would  make  it  look  like  this? 
When  I  last  saw  it,  those  court-yards  were  hidden  by  a 
brick  wall,  and  what  you  could  see  of  the  house  was 
quite  depressing.  It  seemed  falling  into  decay." 

So  saying,  Mr.  Fairfield  made  his  way  across  the 
road  and  scanned  a  notice-board  that  stood  in  the  fore- 
court. 

"  They've  made  it  into  a  museum,"  he  said.  "  This 
is  luck.  I  remember  how  I  longed  to  get  a  peep  at 
the  inside  when  I  was  here  before.  Don't  you  think 
we  might  look  in  for  a  minute  or  two? " 

I  was  strongly  tempted  to  give  way ;  but  knowing 
right  well  what  that  minute  or  two  would  mean,  I 
hardened  my  heart. 

"  We're  late  for  dinner  as  it  is." 

I  was  Mr.  Fairfield's  guest  and  he  bowed  to  the  in- 
evitable with  a  good  grace. 

"  Yes,  we  must  be  moving ;  we  shall  have  plenty  of 
opportunities  of  exploring  it  before  we  go,"  he  said  with 
cheerful  resignation.  But  even  as  he  spoke  he  "  turned 
and  looked,  and  turned  to  look  again  ". 

"  We  might  just  step  into  the  enclosure  and  glance 


THE  BULL  AT  ROCHESTER      307 

at  the  porch,"  he  suggested  meekly.  I  lifted  the  latch 
and  followed  him  inside. 

"  It's  a  glorious  place,"  he  proclaimed,  as  he  stood 
with  his  eyes  glued  on  the  red  brickwork  of  the  front. 
"  And  Dickens  knew  it.  It's  the  Nuns'  House  of 
'  Edwin  Drood  '.  Eosa  went  to  school  here.  And  just 
where  we're  standing  she  bade  the  girls  good-bye. 
Don't  you  remember  the  picture — '  Good-bye,  Kosebud, 
darling'?  Don't  look  so  like  a  martyr,"  he  broke  off, 
melting  into  a  smile  as  he  turned  in  my  direction. 

"  My  stomach,"  said  I,  with  gentle  dignity,  "  has 
begun  to  sorter  growl  and  pester  me."  A  quotation 
from  Uncle  Bemus  was  a  sure  card  to  play  with  Mr. 
Fairfield. 

"  They  shall  fix  you  up  a  smashin'  dinner  presently ; 
but  just  let  me  have  one  more  look  at  the  place  from 
the  other  side  of  the  way  first.  I  really  will  not  be  two 
seconds." 

"  Have  you  coached  yourself  up  in  the  Pickwickian 
associations  of  this  tavern?"  was  my  host's  question 
as  soon  as  we  were  both  seated  at  table  in  the  Bull 
coffee-room. 

"  Good  heavens,  no !     Have  you  ?  " 

"  Ye-es !  I've  been  studying  a  little  book  by  Mr. 
Hammond  Hall  called  '  Mr.  Pickwick's  Kent '.  You 
shall  look  at  it  when  we  go  upstairs.  I  like  the  spirit 
in  which  he  writes  about  Dickens  ;  but  I  don't  see  with 
him  eye  to  eye — he's  an  enthusiast." 

Mr.  Fairfield  said  this  so  reproachfully  and  with 
such  a  judicial  shake  of  the  head  that  I  burst  out 
laughing. 

He  made  no  acknowledgment  of  the  reasonableness 
of  my  merriment.  He  seemed  in  fact  to  be  wholly  ab- 
sorbed in  the  dissection  of  a  piece  of  ox-tail  upon  his 
soup-plate,  but  there  was  a  humorous  pucker  in  his  lips, 
and  after  a  moment  or  two's  silence  he  began  to  justify 
himself. 

"  He  professes  to  locate  the  very  bedrooms  in  which 


308    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

Pickwick  and  the  other  three  slept.  I  never  went  to 
that  length." 

"  I  suppose  you'll  be  having  a  look  at  them,  neverthe- 
less ?  "  said  I. 

"Oh,  yes;  why  not?  After  all,  Dickens  may  have 
had  the  actual  rooms  in  mind.  There's  no  doubt  he 
knew  this  house  well.  And  we  must  see  the  ball-room. 
I  just  peeped  in  while  you  were  unpacking.  I  wasn't 
there  more  than  two  minutes,  but  I  saw  the  gallery 
where  the  musicians  sat  and  the  den  under  it  where  the 
card-tables  were." 

By  this  time  the  trans-Atlantic  enthusiast  was  fairly 
mounted  on  his  hobby. 

"I  had  a  look  at  the  staircase  too,"  he  went  on. 
"  That's  where  Jingle  and  the  doctor  quarrelled ;  and  it 
was  in  this  room — this  very  identical  room  we're  sitting 
in — that  Mr.  Winkle  came  down  next  morning  to  re- 
ceive the  challenge  from  Lieutenant  Tappleton.  And 
this  room's  mentioned  again  in  '  Great  Expectations '. 
It  was  before  that  very  mantelpiece,  not  a  yard  to  my 
left,  that  Pip  and  Bentley  Drummle  stood  and  wrangled. 
That's  why  I  asked  the  waiter  to  let  us  have  this  corner 
table." 

"  I  wonder  if  the  other  enthusiast  went  as  far  as 
that." 

Mr.  Fairfield  grinned.  "  He  mentions  the  incident 
anyhow.  It  was  coming  across  his  book  that  made  me 
first  think  of  spending  a  few  days  here ;  and  then  I 
began  to  re-read  '  Edwin  Drood,'  and  I  felt  that  come  I 
must." 

"Why?" 

"  There's  a  lot  about  Rochester  in  it  and  I  felt  a  sort 
of  longing  to  see  the  place  again,  and  I  had  a  sort  of 
half-hope  " — here  Mr.  Fairfield's  manner  began  to  grow 
very  confidential — "  I  had  a  sort  of  half-hope  I  might 
be  able  to  clear  up  some  things  I've  often  puzzled  over, 
and  I've  never  been  able  to  understand.  That  book 
has  bothered  me  for  five-and-thirty  years,  more  than 


THE  BULL  AT  ROCHESTER      309 

anything  else  I've  ever  read.  Do  you  take  any  interest 
in  it?" 

"  I'm  fond  of  the  book,"  I  admitted.  "  I  remember 
the  green  numbers  coming  out  in  1870 ;  and  though  I 
was  really  too  young  to  understand  much  of  them,  I 
read  them  because  they  were  by  Dickens,  who  had 
written  '  Pickwick  '  and  '  Oliver  Twist '.  We  had  these 
two  books  at  home,  and  I  think  I  tackled  them  at  about 
nine." 

"  Do  you  read  them  still  ?  " 

"  I  dip  into  them  sometimes — I  know  them  too  well 
for  anything  else.  But  I  haven't  looked  at  '  Edwin 
Drood '  for  years." 

Mr.  Fairfield  beamed  with  satisfaction.  "  I've  got  it 
with  me.  Just  you  run  through  it  while  we're  here, 
and  then  we  can  talk  about  it — about  the  clues  that  it 
offers." 

"  Not  to-night.  I've  got  some  papers  to  attend  to — 
it's  your  fault  for  dragging  me  from  Gray's  Inn  a  day 
before  the  vacation  begins." 

"  There's  the  ball-room."  By  this  time  we  had  left 
the  coffee-room  and  had  reached  the  first-floor  corridor ; 
and  as  he  spoke  he  pointed  to  a  door  at  the  end  of  the 
left-hand  passage.  "  I  don't  think  it's  altered  at  all 
since  the  Pickwick  time.  The  chandeliers  are  there 
and  the  two  mantelpieces,  right  enough.  And  there  are 
some  old  portraits." 

"  You  did  pretty  well  in  that  two  minutes,"  I  re- 
marked suspiciously. 

"  Well,  I  had  another  minute  or  two  a  little  later.  I'm 
afraid  I  owe  you  an  apology.  When  you  happened  to 
mention  a  little  time  ago  that  you'd  eaten  two  pieces  of 
bread  before  I  came  down  to  dinner,  I  felt  quite  con- 
science-stricken.' ' 

"I  sat  watching  the  soup-tureen  and  wondering 
what  was  detaining  my  host,"  said  I  reproachfully. 

His  confession  was  a  severe  trial  to  one's  gravity,  but 
I  could  not  let  it  pass  without  protest.  To  be  kept 


310    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

waiting  for  my  dinner  while  he  mooned  about  the  ball- 
room, was  all  in  the  day's  work,  but  for  him  to  glory  in 
his  iniquity  with  a  grin  that  stretched  from  ear  to  ear 
was  not  seemly. 

"I  had  a  peep  at  you  through  the  door  before  I 
hurried  in,  and  hoped  I  hadn't  kept  you  waiting,"  he 
answered  in  a  shaking  voice. 

"  *  To-night  we'll  merry  be ;  to-morrow  we'll  be 
sober,'  "  he  said,  recovering  his  dignity.  "  You  go  and 
read  your  papers,  and  I  won't  disturb  you.  The  truth 
is  I'm  like  a  child  with  a  new  toy  " — here  he  patted  me 
on  the  shoulder — "  and  I've  some  very  particular  fish  to 
fry  on  my  own  account."  Here  he  dived  into  the 
broad  recess  near  which  we  were  standing,  and  helped 
himself  to  a  candlestick.  "  I'm  going  to  have  a  potter 
about  that  ball-room.  If  the  landlord  comes  to  talk  to 
you  about  me,  I  rely  on  your  assuring  him  of  my 
perfect  sanity." 

He  was  half-way  across  the  corridor  as  he  launched 
this  parting  shot  from  over  his  shoulder.  Never  before 
had  I  seen  him  in  such  exuberant  spirits. 

It  was  past  ten  o'clock  when  he  joined  me  in  our  sit- 
ting-room. I  was  busy  writing,  and  without  a  word  he 
glided  to  the  fireside  and  began  to  make  notes  upon 
some  slips  of  paper  in  his  pocket-book. 

"  Have  you  exhausted  all  the  wonders  of  the  ball- 
room? "  I  asked  him,  at  length. 

"  I  have  made  a  fairly  thorough  inspection  of  a  super- 
ficial character,"  he  answered  gravely.  "  You  will  be 
interested  to  learn  that  at  the  farther  end  there  is  a 
door  which  gives  upon  a  staircase  leading  into  the  yard. 
Be  careful  how  you  open  it,  for  one  of  the  hinges  is 
broken." 

"  I  must  make  a  note  of  that.  By-the-by,  to  what 
extent  did  you  resign  yourself  to  the  influences  of  that 
astonishing  room  ? — to  put  the  matter  plainly,  did  you 
dance  much  ?  " 

"What   on   earth   makes   you   ask   that?"     There 


THE  BULL  AT  ROCHESTER     311 

was  a  something  in  Mr.  F airfield's  way  of  meeting  my 
random  shot  that  was  distinctly  suggestive  of  guiltiness. 

"But  did  you?" 

"  Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing 
but  the  truth,  I  believe  I  did  try  a  step  or  two — per- 
haps half  a  dozen  at  the  outside." 

"  The  shadow  dance  can  have  been  nothing  to  it ;  I 
hope  you  didn't  drop  much  grease  about,"  I  said,  laugh- 
ing. "  What  have  you  been  doing  with  the  rest  of  the 
time  since  dinner?" 

"  '  Loungin'  round ;  loungin'  round  and  sufferin','  " 
he  answered,  with  an  outward  movement  of  both  hands. 
From  this  I  concluded  that  he  had  been  making  a 
further  examination  of  the  outside  of  Eastgate  House. 

"  You've  finished  your  business  ?  "  he  inquired,  rising 
to  his  feet.  "  Then  I'll  just  have  a  word  with  you  about 
'  Edwin  Drood,' "  he  went  on,  in  answer  to  my  nod  of 
assent ;  at  the  same  time  beginning  to  rout  among  his 
books.  "  I  want  you  to  read  it  with  what  Forster  says 
about  the  plot  in  your  mind.  That  will  help  you  to  focus 
your  attention  on  the  clues.  He  says  that  by  means  of 
a  gold  ring  that  had  resisted  the  corrosive  action  of  the 
lime  into  which  the  murderer  had  thrown  the  body, 
not  only  the  person  murdered  was  to  be  identified, 
but  the  locality  of  the  crime  and  the  man  who  com- 
mitted it." 

He  had  been  reading  from  a  note  written  inside  the 
cover  of  "  Edwin  Drood,"  and  when  he  reached  the  end, 
he  seemed  half-inclined  to  hand  the  volume  to  me. 
I  saw  he  was  anxious  that  my  studies  should  begin  then 
and  there ;  and,  nothing  loth,  I  was  just  about  to  stretch 
out  my  hand,  when,  smitten  by  a  sudden  thought,  he 
moved  to  the  fireside  and  began  to  turn  over  the  leaves 
as  if  in  search  of  some  particular  passage.  He  soon 
found  what  he  wanted,  and  he  stood  on  the  rug  running 
his  finger  down  the  page.  When,  however,  a  few 
minutes  later,  I  looked  over  to  him  after  I  had  tied  up 
my  papers,  he  had  curled  himself  up  in  his  chair  and 


312    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

was  wholly  absorbed  in  the  story.  Thus  he  remained 
until  the  cathedral  clock  struck  midnight. 

"  Twelve  o'clock,"  said  I. 

"  Bless  me ! "  he  ejaculated,  rousing  himself. 
"  Twelve  o'clock !  Time  we  were  both  in  bed." 

"  You  won't  be  wanting  to  begin  '  Edwin  Drood  '  to- 
night, will  you?" 

It  was-with  his  candlestick  in  one  hand  and  the  book 
under  his  arm  that  he  said  this  as  we  shook  hands  at 
the  door  of  my  bedroom. 


CHAPTEK  XXV 
WE  RAMBLE  TO  GADSHILL 

"AND  where  are  we  to  go  to-day?"  demanded  Mr. 
Fairfield  at  breakfast  next  morning.  It  was  the  last 
day  of  March  and  the  coffee-room  was  bright  with  sun- 
shine. 

"  I've  never  been  over  Chatham  dockyard ;  it  must 
be  well  worth  seeing." 

I  was  watching  my  friend  out  of  the  tail  of  my  eye 
as  I  said  this,  and  I  noticed  with  delight  how  his  face 
fell  at  the  suggestion.  He  had  not  come  to  the  Dickens 
country  to  study  shipbuilding. 

"  I  expect  one  dockyard's  a  good  deal  like  another," 
he  observed  slowly. 

"  Which  have  you  seen  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  sure  I've  ever  seen  one,"  was  his  reluctant 
admission ;  and  then,  after  a  pause,  he  added,  "  By  all 
means  let  us  go  to  Chatham." 

My  host  said  this  with  a  brisk  cheerfulness  that  did 
him  honour,  but  his  countenance  was  anything  but  joy- 
ful. 

"It's  what  Hogarth  and  his  friends  did  when  they 
came  here,  and  Dickens  knew  the  yard,  even  as  a  boy," 
he  went  on,  as  if  trying  to  persuade  himself  that  the 
prospect  was  not  so  black  as  it  looked. 

"  It's  a  wonderful  place.  Queen  Elizabeth  made  it 
a  royal  dockyard — nobody  ought  to  miss  seeing  it !  " 

Mr.  Fairfield's  only  response  to  my  enthusiasm  was 
a  vacant  stare  directed  out  of  the  window. 

"  Not  that  it's  much  in  ray  line  to  potter  about  a 
313 


314    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

dockyard ;  but  if  you're  keen  on  it,  by  all  means  let  us 
go,"  said  I ;  satisfied  at  length  that  accounts  between 
us  in  respect  of  those  two  pieces  of  bread  had  been  fully 
squared. 

My  host  rose  to  his  feet  and  planted  himself  before 
the  fire,  as  if  to  consider  matters.  It  was  not  long 
before  he  had  made  up  his  mind. 

"  How  would  it  do  to  go  and  have  a  look  at  Gads- 
hill?  "  I  had  known  from  the  first  that  this  was  what 
he  had  set  his  heart  upon. 

"  You  see  that  tavern,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
Crown,  a  minute  or  two  after  we  had  started  on  our 
pilgrimage ;  "  that's  where  Jingle  advised  the  Pick- 
wickians  not  to  put  up,  because  it  was  so  dear. 
'  Wright's  next  house,'  he  called  it.  Wright  kept  it  in 
those  days.  The  old  house  has  been  pulled  down,  but 
there's  a  good  bit  of  the  river  front  left.  Mr.  Ham- 
mond Hall  is  my  authority.  There  was  a  Crown  here, 
or  hereabouts,  in  thirteen  hundred.  I  daresay  Shake- 
speare put  up  at  it,  and  it's  more  than  likely  he  had  it  in 
mind  when  he  wrote  the  carriers'  scene  in  '  Henry  IV  ' ." 

"  I  suppose  he  must  have  passed  through  Rochester," 
I  admitted.  "  It  seems  fairly  certain  that  at  some  time 
or  other  he  was  at  Dover." 

"  All  the  great  main  roads  have  a  fascination  for  me  ; 
I'm  glad  they've  found  a  chronicler.  I've  only  read 
one  of  Mr.  Harper's  books — '  The  Great  North  Road ' 
— but  I  mean  to  read  all  of  them.  It  seems  to  me  that 
this  road  is  more  interesting  than  any  of  the  others, 
because  it  was  the  way  to  the  Continent ;  and  so  every- 
body who  was  anybody  was  bound  to  travel  along  here 
some  time  or  another  before  the  railways  came." 

We  had  got  clear  of  the  Strood  traffic  and  were  breast- 
ing the  hill,  when  after  a  long  silence,  my  friend  said  this. 

"  But  only  if  they  were  going  to  Dover  or  some  port 
near  it — Henry  the  Fifth  sailed  from  Southampton,"  I 
interrupted,  smitten  by  a  flash  of  memory. 

"  True,  so  he  did ;  Shakespeare  says  so.     I  suppose 


GADSHILL  315 

he  was  going  to  Normandy ;  I  ought  to  have  thought 
of  Southampton,  but  I'm  sure  Calais  was  what  most 
travellers  made  for,  at  all  events  later  on.  I  don't 
think  I  take  much  account  of  things  before  the  sixteenth 
century." 

My  friend  had  readjusted  his  mental  focus  with  com- 
mendable adroitness,  but  his  conscience  smote  him  for 
not  having  made  a  fuller  acknowledgment  of  his  error. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Wolsey,"  he  said  apologetically. 
"  When  he  made  his  famous  journey  for  Henry  the 
Seventh  to  the  Emperor  Maximilian  at  Bruges,  he  went 
and  came  back  by  way  of  Calais.  And  I  was  thinking  of 
Cardinal  Pole's  state  entry  into  England  in  Queen  Mary's 
time.  He  and  his  cavalcade  passed  along  here,  and  so  did 
everybody  who  went  between  London  and  Dover. 
There  was  the  harbour  there,  you  see,  and  harbours 
weren't  common  in  old  times.  There's  a  very  quaint 
description  of  this  road  in  a  charter  of  Charles  the  First. 
I  think  I  can  find  it — yes,  here  it  is — the  charter  calls  it 
the  King's  highway  and  common  passage  between  our 
city  of  London,  the  metropolis  of  England,  and  our 
cities  of  Rochester  and  Canterbury  and  our  eminent 
haven  of  Dover.  '  Our  eminent  haven  of  Dover,'  you 
observe ;  and  the  only  way  to  and  from  London  was 
over  Kochester  bridge." 

"So  I  gathered  from  your  guide-books  last  night. 
And  I  saw  that  Charles  the  Second  came  through  Ro- 
chester at  the  Restoration.  He  halted  there  for  the  night, 
between  Canterbury  and  London." 

"  That  was  at  Restoration  House.  It  was  renamed 
in  honour  of  the  event.  We  mustn't  forget  to  have  a 
look  at  it.  There's  not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  that 
Charles  the  Second  passed  along  this  road  on  his  way  to 
Whitehall.  I've  read  somewhere  that  both  sides  were 
lined  with  booths  like  a  fair " 

Mr.  Fairfield  stopped  short  and  scanned  the  prospect 
in  front  of  us.  I  do  not  think  he  found  it  easy  to  pic- 
ture the  highway,  lined  with  booths  and  gay  with  the 


316    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

pageantry  of  that  mad  29th  of  May,  1660  ;  for,  with  a 
shake  of  his  head,  he  resumed  his  progress  and  began 
to  talk  about  Hogarth. 

"  Hogarth  and  his  four  friends  went  to  Gravesend  by 
boat,  and  they  walked  along  this  road  to  Eochester. 
It's  under  nine  miles.  They  drank  three  times  on  the 
way.  They  put  up  at  the  Crown,  and  they  had  another 
drink  there.  Then  they  had  a  look  at  the  castle,  and  the 
Town  Hall,  and  Watts'  Hospital,  and  pottered  about 
the  High  Street  till  dinner  time.  We  know  what  they 
had  for  dinner.  There  was  a  dish  of  soles  and  flounders 
with  crab  sauce,  a  roast  calf's  head  '  with  'purt'nance 
minced  and  liver  fried  ' ;  and  they  had  a  leg  of  mutton 
and  green  peas.  I  suppose  they  had  two  or  three 
puddings  to  follow,  and  topped  off  with  a  good  wedge 
of  cheese,  but  that's  not  on  record.  They  drank  beer 
and  port  wine — '  Fresh  was  the  beer  and  sound  the 
port,'  says  the  chronicler.  Do  you  remember  how 
Thackeray  describes  Jos  Sedley's  condition,  when  he 
arrived  in  London  from  Southampton?"  asked  my 
friend,  flying  off  at  a  tangent  and  continuing  his  discourse 
with  intense  enjoyment  without  waiting  for  my  answer. 
"  Thackeray  says  Jos  was  as  full  of  wine,  beer,  meat, 
cherry-brandy,  and  tobacco  as  the  steward's  cabin  of  a 
steam-packet.  Hogarth's  party  must  have  been  like 
that  after  dinner,  but  he  and  his  brother-in-law  were 
equal  to  playing  hopscotch  in  the  Town  Hall ;  and  a 
little  later  the  whole  party  was  sauntering  through 
Chatham  eating  shrimps." 

"  How  old  was  Hogarth?  " 

"  That's  just  what  I  wondered  when  I  read  the 
'  Peregrination,'  and  I  looked  it  up.  He  was  thirty- 
four.  I'm  afraid  he  was  a  bit  of  a  gorger  all  his  life. 
He  was  sixty-six  when  he  died.  He  was  in  poor  health 
for  some  little  time  before,  but  it's  on  record  that  before 
he  went  to  bed  on  the  night  of  his  death,  he  boasted — 
boasted  is  the  word ! — of  having  eaten  a  pound  of  beef- 
steak for  his  dinner." 


GADSHILL  317 

"  We  degenerates  couldn't  have  done  that  even  in 
our  prime,"  was  my  regretful  comment.  "  There's 
comfort  though  in  the  thought  that  he  boasted  of  it — it 
shows  that  even  in  those  days  it  was  something  for  a 
dying  man  to  be  proud  of." 

"I  don't  suppose  he  knew  he  was  dying,"  answered 
Mr.  Fairfield  with  a  merriment  quite  out  of  character 
with  the  subject  of  our  talk ;  "  but  even  if  he  didn't,  he 
had  no  business  to  make  such  a  beast  of  himself.  And 
to  boast  of  it  afterwards  was  simply  unspeakable.  By- 
the-by,  the  Crown  wasn't  a  dear  place  in  his  time. 
The  five  pilgrims  began  by  having  a  drink  there ;  then 
they  had  that  dinner;  they  were  back  again  in  the 
evening  and  no  doubt  they  had  another  meal;  they 
smoked  their  pipes  and  drank  their  wine  till  they  went 
to  bed,  and  next  morning  they  had  breakfast.  And  yet 
the  bill,  including  tips,  if  there  were  any  in  those  days, 
was  under  thirty  shillings — a  little  over  five  shillings  a 
head  for  bed,  three  meals,  port  wine,  beer  and  extras  at 
one  of  the  most  important  inns  on  the  dearest  road  in 
England .  That  was  in  1 7 32 ." 

"  Those  were  grand  days,"  said  I.  "No  wonder 
their  elderly  men  took  a  large  size  in  waistcoats !  " 

By  this  time  we  were  well  past  the  second  milestone 
from  Bochester,  and  were  again  climbing  a  hill.  Mr. 
Fairfield  consulted  his  map ;  and  not  another  word  did 
he  say  until  we  had  reached  a  level  piece  of  road  with 
a  tavern  on  the  right  hand,  and  just  beyond  it  on  the 
left,  a  biggish,  red-brick,  ivy-clad  house  with  a  bell 
turret. 

"  Gadshill  Place!"  said  I,  giving  him  a  slight  dig 
with  my  elbow,  to  let  him  know  that  I  was  wantonly 
forestalling  one  of  his  dramatic  announcements. 

"  I  admit  it,"  he  answered,  smiling ;  "I  won't  put 
you  to  proof  of  it." 

We  moved  on  until  we  were  opposite  the  house,  and 
then  stood  for  a  while  examining  it  as  well  as  we  could 
for  the  trees  and  shrubs  upon  the  grass  plot.  The  ground 


318    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

floor  had  a  porch  with  large  bay-windows  to  right  and 
left,  and  close  beside  it,  on  the  right,  was  a  smaller 
window  that  probably  gave  light  to  the  hall.  There 
were  corresponding  bay-windows  on  the  first  floor,  with 
a  big,  flat  window  between  them  ;  and  behind  the  para- 
pet above,  there  rose  a  slated  attic  storey,  crowned  by 
the  bell  turret.  On  the  right  of  the  house  were  some 
buildings  that  looked  like  stables  and  offices,  and  on  the 
left  was  a  conservatory.  An  entrance  gate  on  either 
side  of  the  front  garden  gave  access  to  the  drive. 
Stretching  outwards  from  each  of  these  gates  was  a  good 
length  of  brick  wall  with  an  outer  fringe  of  pollards. 

"  Edmund  Yates  summed  the  place  up  very  well," 
said  my  companion,  when  we  had  retraced  our  steps  as 
far  as  the  left-hand  wall  and  were  taking  a  side  view  of 
the  house  from  across  the  well-trenched  kitchen  garden. 
"  He  called  it  a  comfortable,  stout,  red-faced,  old- 
fashioned  family  house  with  a  wide  porch  and  a  bell 
tower,  which  always  associated  it  in  his  mind  with  the 
Warren  at  Chigwell."  This  description,  which  came, 
I  need  hardly  mention,  from  one  of  my  friend's  inex- 
haustible stores  of  memoranda,  was  manifestly  accurate 
and  complete. 

"  This  was  where  the  chalet  was,"  he  continued,  as 
he  led  the  way  across  the  road  to  a  garden  or  shrubbery 
that  faced  the  house  and  abutted  on  the  highway.  Im- 
mediately below  us,  on  the  other  side  of  the  railings, 
was  a  flight  of  very  steep  steps  that  seemed  to  descend 
into  the  bowels  of  the  earth. 

"  That's  the  approach  to  the  tunnel  he  made  under 
the  road,"  explained  my  companion.  "  What  a  wonder- 
ful growth  of  ivy  there  is  on  each  side  !  " 

There  were  two  fine  cedar  trees  just  within  the  rail- 
ing, before  which  we  stood.  The  ground  between  us 
and  the  more  umbrageous  background  of  the  shrubbery 
was  covered  with  smooth  turf,  rising  on  the  left  to  the 
soft  swell  of  a  bank,  crowned  with  a  promise  of  spring 
blossoms. 


GADSHILL  319 

"  Linda,  his  big  St.  Bernard,  was  buried  under  one 
of  those  cedars.  The  chdlet  in  which  he  was  working 
at  '  Edwin  Drood '  for  the  last  time  was  somewhere 
among  those  trees  at  the  back.  The  room  was  full  of 
mirrors  that  reflected  all  the  surroundings.  He  was 
fond  of  mirrors — fond  of  red  geraniums  too.  His 
daughter  Katie  once  told  him  that  when  he  was  an 
angel  his  wings  would  be  made  of  looking-glass  and  his 
crown  of  scarlet  geraniums." 

A  lane  skirts  one  side  of  the  house,  and  continuing 
across  the  highway,  it  skirts  the  wall  of  the  detached 
garden  and  leads,  I  think,  to  Higham. 

"  Let's  go  down  that  lane.  He  had  a  beautiful  view 
from  the  chdlet,  and  we  ought  to  make  out  something  of  it 
from  round  the  corner.  I've  got  a  note  somewhere  of 
what  he  says  in  one  of  his  letters  about  that  view." 

"  Ordinary  enough  as  we  see  it,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield 
when  we  had  followed  the  lane  for  a  few  paces  and  had 
gazed  for  awhile  at  the  prospect  it  commanded ;  "  but 
he  could  see  the  river.  The  chdlet  was  mounted  on  a 
foundation  of  brick,  and  his  room  was  the  upper  one." 

We  turned  back,  and,  seating  ourselves  on  the  coping 
of  the  low  wall  that  formed  the  base  of  the  shrubbery  rail- 
ings, we  resigned  ourselves  to  the  consolation  of  tobacco. 

"  He  planted  those  trees,"  said  my  friend,  pointing 
across  the  road  to  the  pollards  fringing  the  wall  to  left 
and  right  of  us.  "  They're  limes — eighteen  on  one 
side  and  ten  on  the  other.  There  are  some  more  in  the 
meadow  at  the  back  of  the  house — some  chestnuts  too. 
He  chose  trees  that  grew  quickly.  Do  you  see  that  red 
letter-box  in  the  left-hand  gate  post  ?  That  was  put  up 
in  his  time.  He  wanted  it  put  there,  and  I  think 
Edmund  Yates  worked  the  oracle  for  him.  I  should 
like  to  post  a  letter  in  that  box.  He  must  have  posted 
hundreds.  That  big  bay-window  to  the  right  of  the  porch 
was,  I  think,  his  study  window.  His  desk  was  close  up 
to  it.  You  remember  Fildes'  picture  of  the  Vacant 
Chair.  When  I  came  here  before,  I  don't  think  you 


320    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

could  see  much  of  the  house  from  the  road — there's 
such  a  lot  of  foliage  in  the  way  in  the  summer." 

"  I  shouldn't  like  to  work  at  a  table  set  in  a  win- 
dow." 

"  No,  nor  I.  He  must  have  been  as  fond  of  working 
in  strong  sunshine  as  Scott  was.  The  last  writing  he 
ever  did  was,  I  suppose,  at  that  window.  He'd  been 
busy  with  '  Edwin  Drood  '  in  the  chdlet  all  the  morn- 
ing, and  he  went  back  to  it  after  lunch.  It  wasn't 
usual  for  him  to  work  in  the  afternoon,  but  he  was 
anxious  to  get  on  with  the  story.  He  knocked  off  at 
about  five  and  went  over  to  the  house.  We're  told  he 
wrote  some  notes  in  the  study.  Do  you  remember  his 
death?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  I  was  a  boy  at  the  time,  and  I  remember 
being  told  that  Charles  Dickens  was  dead." 

"  It  was  a  lovely  June  afternoon.  The  weather  that 
day,  and  the  view  from  the  chdlet,  had  suggested  the 
passage  that  begins — '  A  brilliant  morning  shines  over  the 
old  city '.  It's  a  beautiful  passage ;  there's  such  a  lot  of 
colour  in  it,  such  compression  too.  I've  often  studied  the 
manuscript ;  it's  so  interesting  to  see  how  he  altered  as 
he  went  on.  He  must  have  been  working  very  slowly 
that  day.  An  hour  after  he  had  left  off  he  had  the 
seizure.  He  never  regained  consciousness,  though  he 
lived  for  twenty-four  hours.  It  isn't  difficult  to  picture 
him  going  down  those  steps  for  the  last  time." 

My  friend  had  risen  to  his  feet  and  was  leaning  over 
the  railings  and  gazing  at  the  steps  with  wistful  eyes. 
During  the  long  pause  which  followed  I  wondered 
whether  in  imagination  he  was  conjuring  up  the  figure 
of  Charles  Dickens  as  he  looked  that  afternoon.  When 
Mr.  Fairfield  spoke  I  felt  no  doubt  about  it. 

"  He  must  have  left  the  chdlet  with  his  mind  full  of 
'Edwin  Drood' — we  are  told  he  was  silent,  tired  and 
abstracted,  but  that  was  nothing  unusual  when  he'd 
been  writing.  He  must  have  come  over  the  grass  to 
that  iron  wicket.  It  wouldn't  be  open  as  it  is  now ; 


GADSHILL  321 

he'd  have  shut  it  behind  him  when  he  went  through  it 
after  lunch.  Trust  him  for  that !  He'd  have  on  a  light 
summer  suit  and  one  of  those  hard,  round  hats  with  a 
flat  brim — that  was  the  shape  five-and-thirty  years  ago 
— and  he'd  wear  it  on  one  side.  He  always  did.  I'm 
afraid  he  was  dreadfully  hacked  about  the  face.  He'd 
been  ill  for  some  time,  and  just  then  he'd  be  very  tired. 
And  I  think  he'd  move  very  wearily,  and  the  left  foot 
would  drag  a  bit.  He'd  had  a  lot  of  trouble  with  it. 
He'd  go  down  those  steps  with  his  mind  full  of  '  Edwin 
Drood  '.  Not  a  soul  but  himself  knew  how  it  was  going 
to  end,  and  the  secret  died  with  him.  You  will  look 
through  it,  won't  you?  and  then  we  can  talk  about  it." 

Mr.  Fairfield  turned  in  my  direction  as  he  asked  the 
question.  Down  to  this  point  he  had  been  speaking  to 
himself  rather  than  to  me. 

"  You  can  see  the  other  end  of  the  tunnel  from  over 
the  ivy  yonder,"  he  resumed. 

We  walked  across  the  road  to  the  other  garden,  and 
peered  down  into  another  cavernous  opening  in  the 
ground. 

"I'll  be  bound  there  were  scarlet  geraniums  in  the 
beds  on  the  lawn,  but  I  don't  think  he  noticed  them  or 
anything  else  as  he  went  up  to  the  porch.  What  he 
saw  was  some  scene  in  the  book.  I  wonder  if  there  was 
any  passer-by  who  noticed  him  disappear  down  those 
steps  and  come  up  here,  and  who  knew  he  was  Charles 
Dickens." 

The  enthusiast  led  the  way  back  to  the  other  side  of 
the  road  and  took  a  slow  survey  of  the  house  and  its 
surroundings.  I  thought  this  indicated  that  he  had 
come  to  the  end  of  his  outpourings  and  was  about  to 
tear  himself  away.  But  here  I  was  mistaken  ;  after  a 
pause  he  resumed  his  parable. 

"  He  grew  wonderfully  fond  of  this  place.    The  night 

before  he  wrote  that  last   chapter,  he  was  talking  to 

Miss  Hogarth  about  his  love  for  Gadshill,  and  his  wish 

that  his  name  might  become  more  and  more  associated 

21 


322    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

with  it.  I  believe  he  was  nearly  as  fond  of  it  as  Scott 
was  of  Abbotsford,  and,  as  every  one  supposes,  Shake- 
speare was  of  New  Place.  It's  some  satisfaction  to 
think  that  each  of  them  died  in  his  own  house." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  him?  " 

"  No !  And  I'm  glad  I  never  heard  him  read.  The 
very  thought  of  those  readings  makes  me  sick.  The 
whole  business  was  deplorable.  I  don't  like  to  say  it 
was  degrading ;  but  that's  what  it  was." 

Mr.  F  airfield  spoke  with  so  much  heat  that  I  stared 
at  him  in  amazement. 

"  It  killed  him  for  one  thing ;  and,  apart  from  that, 
it  was  unworthy  of  him." 

This  seemed  the  last  word  upon  a  painful  subject ; 
but  a  moment  or  two  later  he  burst  forth  with  renewed 
vehemence.  He  called  in  Shakespeare  to  his  aid  this 
time,  and  he  emphasized  his  elocution  with  a  clenched 
hand  : — 

"  Alas,  'tis  true,  I  have  gone  here  and  there, 

And  made  myself  a  motley  to  the  view, 

Gored  mine  own  thoughts,  sold  cheap  what  is  most  dear, 

Made  old  offences  of  affections  new — 

I'll  be  bound  John  Forster  gave  him  the  benefit  of  that 
more  than  once ;  but  it  was  no  good  Forster,  or  any 
one  else,  trying  to  turn  him  when  he'd  made  up  his 
mind.  His  old  friend  and  doctor,  Frank  Carr  Beard, 
remonstrated  over  and  over  again — Forster  says  so." 

"  I  seem  to  have  dropped  a  match  into  a  powder 
barrel." 

I  had  postponed  the  making  of  this  comment  until 
Mr.  F  airfield  had  lighted  a  fresh  cigar,  and  was  staring 
absently  into  the  dusky  recesses  of  one  of  the  cedar 
trees. 

"  The  volcano  is  exhausted — for  the  time  being,"  he 
answered,  laughing.  "  Just  before  you  asked  me  if  I'd 
seen  him,  I'd  been  thinking  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
the  readings,  he  might  have  lived  for  twenty  years  and 


GADSHILL  323 

finished  *  Edwin  Drood '  and  half  a  dozen  other  books. 
Let's  go  a  little  way  down  the  lane  on  the  other  side, 
and  see  what  we  can  of  the  back  of  the  house." 

"Great  Jehoshaphat !  "  This  was  Mr.  Fairfield's 
ejaculation  when  we  reached  the  corner  and  came 
upon  a  brand-new  villa  residence,  which  had  hitherto 
escaped  his  notice.  "I  wish  they'd  built  this  some- 
where else." 

"  People  must  have  houses." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  but  it's  amazing  to  find  this  one  stuck  so 
close  to  Gadshill  Place ;  and  do  you  see  what  it's  called 
— Dingley  Dell !  It's  bad  enough  to  stick  the  thing 
here  at  all — and  then  to  give  it  that  name  !  It's  adding 
insult  to  injury." 

"  It's  as  bad  as  writing  '  Pickwick  '  in  some  unauthor- 
ized place  and  putting  Moses  before  it,"  he  went  on 
with  intense  enjoyment.  "  Do  you  remember  the  pass- 
age?— 'not  content  with  writin'  up  "Pickwick,"  they 
puts  Moses  afore  it,  vich  I  call  addin'  insult  to  injury, 
as  the  parrot  said  ven  they  not  only  took  him  from  his 
native  land,  but  made  him  talk  the  English  langwidge 
arterwards '." 

By  the  time  we  had  made  the  best  inspection  we 
could  of  the  back  of  Gadshill  Place  and  the  paddock  in 
rear  of  it,  I  was  beginning  to  think  that  the  sooner  we 
turned  our  faces  homeward  in  search  of  lunch  the  better. 
But  my  host  had  other  projects  in  his  mind !  As  soon 
as  we  were  back  in  the  high  road,  he  set  his  face  towards 
London. 

"  There  are  two  things  I  must  show  you,"  he  said. 

"  That's  the  twenty-sixth  from  London,"  he  pro- 
claimed, when  two  or  three  hundred  yards  beyond  the 
house  we  came  upon  a  milestone. 

"  '  Three  miles  to  Rochester — twenty-six  miles  to 
London,'  "  he  read  out  as  we  passed  it. 

"I'm  not  sure  I  can  walk  twenty-six  miles  before 
lunch,"  I  hinted. 

"By  jove!  we've  come  past  it."     Mr.  Fairfield  was 


324    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

consulting  his  map  and  paying  no  attention  to  me. 
"  I  thought  it  was  this  side  of  the  milestone." 

We  turned  and  retraced  our  steps.  We  had  not  pro- 
ceeded more  than  seventy  or  eighty  yards  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Gadshill  Place,  when  my  companion  crossed 
over  to  a  patch  of  wayside  grass  upon  the  south  side  of 
the  road.  The  highway  at  this  spot  ran  between  two 
coppices,  bare  and  leafless  at  this  season,  but  showing 
in  their  colour  a  promise  of  the  spring. 

"  Do  you  see  that  ?  "  he  asked,  stopping  at  the  dry 
shell  of  an  aged  ash  tree  and  pointing  to  a  stone  post 
that  stood  upon  the  patch  of  grass  some  ten  paces  in 
front  of  us.  "  What  do  you  think  it  is  ?  " 

"  It  looks  to  me  like  a  defaced  and  superannuated 
milestone,"  I  answered,  after  a  long  and  conscientious 
scrutiny  at  close  quarters. 

This  scrutiny  and  the  precise  description  which  had 
followed  upon  it  were  quite  to  my  friend's  taste. 

"  Now,  listen !  "  said  he,  beaming  with  satisfaction 
as  he  turned  over  three  or  four  small  printed  sheets. 
I  had  watched  him  take  them  out  of  one  of  his  books 
just  before  he  left  the  Bull. 

"  It's  out  of  the  '  Uncommercial  Traveller  '  paper  on 
'  Tramps '.  This  is  what  he  says  : — 

"I  have  my  eye  upon  a  piece  of  Kentish  road,  bordered  on 
either  side  by  a  wood,  and  having  on  one  hand,  between  the  road- 
dust  and  the  trees,  a  skirting  patch  of  grass.  Wild  flowers  grow  in 
abundance  on  this  spot,  and  it  lies  high  and  airy,  with  a  distant 
river  stealing  steadily  away  to  the  ocean,  like  a  man's  life.  To 
gain  the  milestone  here,  which  the  moss,  primroses,  violets,  blue- 
bells and  wild  roses,  would  soon  render  illegible  but  for  peering 
travellers  pushing  them  aside  with  their  sticks,  you  must  come  up 
a  steep  hill,  come  which  way  you  may.  So,  all  the  tramps  with 
carts  or  caravans — the  Gipsy-tramp,  the  Show-tramp,  the  Cheap 
Jack — find  it  impossible  to  resist  the  temptations  of  the  place,  and 
all  turn  the  horse  loose  when  they  come  to  it,  and  boil  the  pot. 
Bless  the  place,  I  love  the  ashes  of  the  vagabond  fires  that  have 
scorched  its  grass ! 

Any  doubt  about  the  place  ?  "  he  asked,  triumphantly. 


GADSHILL  325 

"  I  accept  it  as  proved." 

"  It  was  here  he  met  Dr.  Marigold,  and  Chops  the 
Dwarf — Forster  says  so." 

"  What  is  the  other  thing  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  That's  farther  ahead." 

"  Three  miles  to  Kochester — twenty-six  miles  to 
London,"  said  I,  as  we  repassed  the  official  milestone. 
"  Our  lunch,  I  take  it,  is  at  Eochester." 

"  It's  a  bad  plan  to  let  the  mind  dwell  upon  eating  and 
drinking,"  said  my  host,  with  an  affectation  of  austerity. 

"Then  why  let  the  regular  times  go  by?  You're 
bound  to  think  of  nothing  else  when  you're  hungry." 

"  But  it  isn't  lunch  time  yet." 

"  No,  but  it  will  be  before  we  get  to  London." 

My  friend  laughed.  "  I  won't  ask  you  to  try  that 
twenty-six  miles  you're  so  doubtful  about.  We're  not 
going  beyond  that  house  on  the  right." 

We  stopped  when  we  came  up  to  it.  It  was  a  way- 
side inn,  spick  and  span  with  new  red  brick  and  rough- 
cast. Its  sign  was  the  Duke  of  York,  and  on  the  higher 
storey  was  a  tablet  bearing  the  inscription,  "  Ye  Olde 
Beef  Steak  House.  Eebuilt  1893."  There  was  a 
patch  of  grass  in  front  with  four  clipped  trees  and  a 
well.  This  last  was  furnished  with  a  windlass. 

"What  do  you  say  those  trees  are?"  my  friend  de- 
manded. 

"  I  haven't  a  notion.  If  they  were  in  leaf  I  might 
know." 

"Nonsense!  they're  limes — trimmed  limes.  Surely 
you  must  see  that." 

"  I'm  quite  willing  to  believe  it,"  I  pleaded. 

"  Perhaps  you'll  say  you  don't  know  what  there  is 
under  that  windlass? " 

"  It  looks  like  a  well." 

"  Of  course,  it's  a  well — now  listen !  "  This  heralded 
another  extract  from  the  paper  on  "  Tramps  "  : — 

"Within  appropriate  distance  of  this  magic  ground  ['That's 
the  grassy  place  with  the  milestone ']  though  not  so  near  it  as  that 


326    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

the  song  trolled  from  tap  or  bench  at  door,  can  invade  its  woodland 
silence,  is  a  little  hostelry  which  no  man  possessed  of  a  penny  was 
ever  known  to  pass  in  warm  weather.  Before  its  entrance  are 
certain  pleasant  trimmed  limes ;  likewise,  a  cool  well,  with  so 
musical  a  bucket-handle  that  its  fall  upon  the  bucket  rim  will  make 
a  horse  prick  up  his  ears  and  neigh,  upon  the  droughty  road  half  a 
mile  off.  This  is  a  house  of  great  resort  for  haymaking  tramps  and 
harvest  tramps,  insomuch  that  they  sit  within,  drinking  their  mugs 
of  beer,  their  relinquished  scythes  and  reaping-hooks  glare  out  of 
the  open  windows,  as  if  the  whole  establishment  were  a  family  war- 
coach  of  Ancient  Britons." 

"  The  place  has  been  rebuilt,"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  yes !  but  the  trees  are  left,  and  so's  the  well 
and  the  bucket-handle." 

"  Are  these  discoveries  your  own,  or  did  the  guide- 
books tell  you  about  them?" 

"I  found  them  out  for  myself;  but  for  all  I  know 
they  may  have  been  identified  by  dozens  of  other  people. 
This  inn  was  a  sort  of  landmark  in  the  old  coaching 
days.  It's  called  the  Half-way  House  in  the  road-books." 

"  Are  we  going  to  Eochester  now? "  I  asked. 

"  No,  we're  going  to  Cobham.  But  cheer  up ! — if 
you  haven't  had  your  lunch  by  two  o'clock,  '  call  me 
horse'." 

"  Ah,"  said  I,  recognizing  the  quotation,  "  I  thought 
I  shouldn't  get  off  Gadshill  without  hearing  something 
about  Falstaff." 

For  a  moment  my  friend  looked  puzzled.  "  I  forgot 
all  about  him,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  he  had  grasped  my 
meaning.  "That  phrase  was  a  mere  coincidence ;  and 
yet,  oddly  enough,  Falstaff  was  talking  about  Gadshill 
when  he  used  it." 


CHAPTEB  XXVI 

IN  COBHAM  PARK  WE  LEARN  SOMETHING  ABOUT 
CHARLES  DICKENS 

WE  retraced  our  steps  towards  Rochester  for  a  little 
way  beyond  the  twenty-sixth  milestone,  and  then  took 
a  turning  to  the  right.  Past  hedgerows,  just  bursting 
into  leaf,  and  ditches,  starred  with  celandine,  with  here 
and  there  to  right  or  left  a  bare  coppice,  that  looked 
almost  crimson  in  the  sunshine,  we  made  our  way 
through  Upper  Shorne  and  on  to  Cobham  Park.  At 
the  gates,  a  native,  of  whom  we  took  counsel  as  to  our 
route  to  the  village,  and  who  said  he  was  about  to  stroll 
in  the  same  direction,  volunteered  to  act  as  our  guide. 
He  was  a  man  of  some  fifty  years,  with  the  appearance 
of  a  well-to-do  farmer,  but  with  something  in  his  speech 
and  manner  that  suggested  commerce  rather  than  agri- 
culture. 

"  Real  estate  office — or  perhaps  some  sort  of  mill," 
whispered  Mr.  Fairfield  when  our  guide  had  dropped 
behind  for  a  moment  to  whistle  to  his  dog. 

"  A  fine  country — a  very  fine  country  !  "  My  friend 
said  this  with  quiet  fervour ;  and  he  halted  to  survey 
with  an  admiring  eye  the  rolling  acres  of  the  park  and 
the  wide  prospects  beyond  it.  "  Perhaps,  sir,  you  be- 
long to  it? "  I  knew  what  this  diplomacy  was  to  lead 
up  to. 

"  Lived  here  all  my  life." 

"  I  daresay  you  remember  Charles  Dickens." 

"  Met  him  many  and  many  a  time  when  I  was  a 
boy." 

327 


328    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"In  this  park?" 

"  All  round  about  here." 

"  Can  you  remember  at  all  how  he  looked?"  Mr. 
F  airfield  put  this  question  with  an  elaborate  carelessness 
that  reminded  me  of  the  wiles  of  a  cross-examiner. 

"  He  always  had  half  a  dozen  big  dogs  with  him." 

This  was  something,  but  it  was  hardly  enough  to 
enable  even  an  enthusiast  to  construct  a  clear  mental 
picture  of  Charles  Dickens  as  he  appeared  to  his  country 
neighbours.  It  was  plain  from  our  guide's  manner  that 
the  subject  did  not  appeal  to  him  in  any  special  way, 
but  the  chance  of  getting  a  description  from  an  eye- 
witness was  too  tempting  to  be  lost.  Mr.  Fairneld 
thought  matters  over,  and  then  returned  to  the  attack. 

"  You  say  he  had  half  a  dozen  dogs  with  him " 

"  So  he  had." 

This  answer  was  jerked  out  before  the  question, 
which  the  diplomatist  was  introducing  so  deftly,  could 
be  got  upon  its  legs.  Mr.  Fairneld  went  straight  for 
the  mark  next  time. 

"  He  was  a  pretty  brisk  walker,  I  believe.  I  daresay 
you  can  recall  him  quite  plainly." 

"  Just  as  if  I  saw  him  before  me.  Bless  me ! —  " 
Here  our  companion  paused  in  his  discourse  and  looked 
about  him,  as  if  arranging  the  form  of  words  which 
would  best  describe  the  figure  that  his  mind's  eye  saw 
so  plainly. 

But  once  again  Mr.  Fairneld  was  to  be  disappointed. 
"  He  used  to  be  walking  just  as  you  and  I  might  be 
walking  now,"  was  all  that  followed. 

In  the  face  of  this  last  discouragement,  it  seemed 
useless  to  work  the  pump-handle  any  longer,  so  Charles 
Dickens  as  a  subject  for  conversation  went  by  the  board. 
In  the  talk  that  followed,  the  stranger  spoke  of  the 
smuggling  that  used  to  go  on  in  the  marshes  about 
Gravesend.  It  was,  he  said,  a  common  occurrence  for 
the  smugglers  to  borrow  a  farmer's  horses  without  ask- 
ing leave.  When  in  the  morning  there  was  a  team 


IN  COBHAM  PARK  329 

missing,  the  farmer  grumbled  a  bit  and  did  as  well  as 
he  could  without  it.  The  horses  were  certain  to  be 
brought  back,  and  their  temporary  loss  was  looked  upon 
as  one  of  the  small  ills  of  life  for  which  there  was  no 
remedy. 

Other  local  matters  were  touched  upon,  and  our  ac- 
quaintance happened  to  mention  that  he  was  a  Kentish 
Man,  as  distinguished  from  a  Man  of  Kent.  I  paid  no 
great  attention  to  the  information,  which,  in  response 
to  Mr.  Fairfield's  questions,  he  poured  forth  in  explana- 
tion of  these  terms ;  but  I  obtained  a  vague,  general  im- 
pression that  Rochester  Bridge  was  the  dividing  line 
between  two  hostile  camps,  and  that  the  natives  of  so 
much  of  the  country  as  lay  east  of  the  river,  were  the 
Men  of  Kent  and  were  in  the  enjoyment  of  certain 
rights  and  privileges  to  which  the  Kentish  Men  were 
strangers.  My  friend's  efforts  to  obtain  particulars  of 
these  franchises  interested  me  very  little,  for,  rightly 
or  wrongly,  -i  felt  certain  that,  notwithstanding  the 
smouldering  cispontine  jealousy  with  which  our  guide 
referred  to  them,  they  had  little  or  no  existence  outside 
the  imagination  of  a  Kentish  Man. 

The  talk  branched  off  into  other  topics,  but  I  paid  no 
heed  to  it  till  a  mention  of  Dickens  made  me  prick  up 
my  ears.  The  indomitable  F airfield  was  making  a  last 
despairing  effort  to  get  some  personal  details,  before  he 
lost  touch  for  ever  with  one  who,  as  a  boy,  had  seen  the 
great  man  many  times,  and  who,  sad  to  say,  appeared  to 
be  wholly  unconscious  of  the  privilege  that  had  been  his. 

"  I  suppose  everyone  about  here  took  a  good  deal  of 
interest  in  Dickens  during  his  lifetime,"  was  the  remark 
that  recalled  my  wandering  thoughts. 

Our  guide  shook  his  head.  "  Nobody  took  any  in- 
terest in  him." 

"  That  seems  strange,"  was  my  friend's  amazed 
comment. 

"  Bless  your  soul !  nobody  here  thought  anything  at 
all  about  him." 


330    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

The  stranger  seemed  at  a  loss  to  find  words  strong 
enough  to  express  the  indifference  with  which  the 
natives  of  that  part  of  the  country  had  regarded  the 
illustrious  sojourner  in  their  midst. 

Mr.  James  C.  Fairfield  of  Chicago  once  again  sur- 
veyed the  rolling  acres  of  the  park  and  the  wide  pro- 
spects beyond,  but  there  was  nothing  but  scorn  and 
contempt  in  his  eye  this  time.  It  was  not  difficult  to 
follow  the  tenor  of  his  thoughts.  The  countryside  was 
good  to  look  upon — that  was  manifest,  and  besides, 
Charles  Dickens  had  vouched  for  it — but  if  this  man 
spoke  truth,  that  countryside  was  not  worthy  to  be  the 
dwelling-place  of  a  Chicago  hog. 

"  He  used  to  drive  two  ponies  with  silver  bells,"  ob- 
served the  dweller  in  Bceotia,  wholly  unconscious  of  the 
indignation  which  he  had  aroused. 

"  Surely  they  must  have  been  interesting !  " 

The  gentle  irony  of  this  remark  fell  harmless,  and,  to 
my  friend's  astonishment,  our  Kentish  Mate  went  on  to 
make  it  clear  that  not  only  were  the  silver  bells  an  ob- 
ject of  intense  interest  during  Charles  Dickens'  lifetime, 
but  after  his  death  there  was  a  fierce  local  struggle  to 
obtain  possession  of  them.  When  they  were  offered 
for  sale  with  the  rest  of  the  effects  at  Gadshill  Place, 
the  competition  was  so  keen  that  it  ended  in  a  hand-to- 
hand  conflict  between  two  bidders,  and  the  lot  had  to 
be  withdrawn.  Later  on  it  was  sold  by  private  treaty 
to  a  Kochester  contractor  named  Ball. 

By  this  time  Mr.  Fairfield  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  Charles  Dickens,  as  regarded  by  our  guide  and, 
possibly,  the  other  inhabitants  of  Shorne,  was  a  subject 
for  mirth  rather  than  indignation.  He  was  even  desirous 
of  keeping  up  the  joke. 

"  Dickens  has  been  dead  some  time  now,"  he  re- 
marked vaguely. 

"  Five-and-twenty  years — he  was  so  poor  they  had 
to  sell  all  his  things  off." 

"  I  hope  they  realized  enough  to  pay  his  debts  and 
funeral  expenses,"  said  I. 


THE  SHIP  AT  COBHAM          331 

"  I  certainly  never  heard  of  any  one  not  being  paid," 
was  the  answer,  given  somewhat  grudgingly,  but  in 
perfect  good  faith. 

"  Do  you  understand  this?  "  asked  my  friend  as  soon 
as  the  man  had  disappeared  and  we  had  had  our  laugh 
out.  "  He  seemed  quite  intelligent  in  other  respects ; 
what  he  said  about  the  old  trees  in  the  Pilgrims'  Way 
was  well  worth  noting." 

"  It's  a  sort  of  local  patriotism.  The  man's  family 
has  been  on  the  soil  here  for  generations,  and  he  resents 
the  suggestion  that  Charles  Dickens,  or  any  other  mere 
resident,  should  be  thought  of  any  importance." 

"  If  that's  so,  it's  a  pity  I  didn't  mention  that  Dickens 
was  a  friend  of  Lord  Darnley  and  had  keys  to  the  Park 
gates.  Authorship  seems  to  want  a  deal  of  shoring  up 
in  this  country  before  it  looks  respectable.  The  abori- 
gines of  the  Isle  of  Wight  thought  nothing  of  Tenny- 
son until  they  heard  that  the  Prince  Consort  had  called 
upon  him;  and  when  some  one  asked  a  Haslemere 
native  about  him,  the  answer  was,  that  Mr.  Tennyson 
only  kept  one  man  and  he  didn't  sleep  in  the  house." 

We  found  our  way  from  the  park  wicket  to  Cobham 
village,  and  entered  the  first  inn  we  came  to.  This 
was  the  Ship.  As  the  public  rooms  on  the  first  floor 
were  being  prepared  for  the  influx  of  Eastertide  custom, 
the  landlord  courteously  ushered  us  through  the  bar 
into  a  low-browed  inner  room,  which  looked  out  upon  a 
small  meadow. 

"  I  like  this  hospitable  way  of  doing  business,"  said 
Mr.  Fairfield  as  he  surveyed  the  meal  of  bread,  cheese, 
and  butter  that  had  been  spread  before  us.  "  The  good 
old  custom  of  letting  the  guest  cut  for  himself  seems 
dying  out  in  England." 

"  We  must  try  and  prove  ourselves  worthy  of  our 
host's  confidence,"  said  I,  attacking  the  cheese. 

"  Innkeepers  exercise  a  discretion  in  these  matters. 
They  go  by  a  person's  appearance.  This  profuse  display 
is  really  a  personal  compliment  to  you  and  me." 

"  They  know  when  they're  safe,"  he  continued.     "  I 


remember  years  ago  lunching  at  an  inn  near  Sydenham. 
They  brought  me  the  joint  of  cold  beef.  After  I  had 
finished,  a  bagman-looking  fellow  came  in,  and  I  noticed 
they  cut  off  a  portion  for  him.  They  saw  they  could 
trust  me  to  eat  in  moderation  and  not  to  mangle  the  joint, 
and  they  couldn't  trust  him.  I've  never  forgotten  it." 
He  finished  this  anecdote  with  a  self-complacency  that 
was  positively  unctuous. 

"  You're  sure  you  did  eat  in  moderation?  "  I  asked, 
doubtfully. 

"  I  don't  remember  anything  about  it ;  but  no  doubt 
I  did." 

"  If  that  was  so,  wasn't  it  rather  odd  they  didn't  let 
the  next  man  have  the  joint  ?  It  looks  to  me  as  if  you 
had  destroyed  their  confidence." 

Mr.  Fairfield  considered  this  suggestion  as  he  munched 
his  bread  and  cheese. 

"  I  don't  like  the  construction  you  put  upon  the 
facts,"  he  said,  laughing.  "  I  wonder  if  we  may  smoke 
in  here.  It  isn't  a  public  room,  but  I  think  I'll  venture 
to  step  into  the  bar  and  ask  the  landlord." 

This  permission  was  readily  given,  and  my  friend 
settled  himself  in  a  big  chair  with  a  high-railed  back 
and  produced  his  cigar-case. 

"  This  is  very  comfortable,"  said  he.  "  I'm  not  sorry 
to  get  a  rest ;  we're  in  luck  to  have  a  place  like  this  all 
to  ourselves." 

"  Do  many  people  come  to  Cobham?  " 

"  Oh,  yes !  There's  a  lot  about  the  place  in  the 
books  on  Dickens-land.  People  come  here  in  swarms 
— my  countrymen  in  particular.  Why,  they " 

At  this  moment  the  landlord  made  his  appearance 
bearing  a  bright  brass  spittoon,  which  he  placed  in  the 
immediate  neighbourhood  of  Mr.  Fairfield's  right  foot. 
"  There's  another  in  the  corner,  sir !  "  he  said,  with 
much  geniality  as  he  paused  for  a  moment  at  the  open 
door.  This  intimation  was  intended  for  my  benefit, 
but  it  was  addressed  to  the  big  chair. 


THE  SHIP  AT  COBHAM          333 

"  Here  it  is !  "  said  I,  steering  the  article  into  posi- 
tion with  my  foot. 

Mr.  F  airfield  sat  bolt  upright  with  a  matchbox  in 
one  hand  and  an  unlighted  cigar  in  the  other.  His  gaze 
wandered  from  the  brass  on  his  right  to  the  hardware 
on  his  left,  and  the  expression  of  his  features  was  more 
thoughtful  than  before.  As  he  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten his  unfinished  sentence,  I  deemed  it  well  to  jog 
his  memory. 

"  You  were  saying,"  I  remarked,  "  that  your  country- 
men were  well  known  here." 

"  I  am  quite  aware  of  what  I  was  saying,"  he 
began  with  some  tartness;  but  as  he  spoke  his  eye 
fell  again  on  the  two  spittoons,  and  for  once  his  sense  of 
humour  got  the  better  of  his  patriotism. 

"  Confound  the  things !  "  he  said,  laughing  as  he 
thrust  them  out  of  sight.  "  If  that  landlord  keeps  a 
visitors'  book,  I  shall  sign  it  in  the  character  of  Hanni- 
bal Chollop." 


CHAPTEE  XXVII 

WE  VISIT  MINOR  CANON  ROW,  AND  RAMBLE  TO 
COOLING 

BOCHESTEB  nowadays  is  not  nearly  such  a  sleepy  place 
as  the  Cloisterham  or  Dullborough  Town  of  Charles 
Dickens.  The  High  Street  is,  in  fact,  a  fairly  bustling 
thoroughfare ;  but  whoso  turns  out  of  it,  by  the  College 
Gateway,  leaves  the  twentieth  century  behind  him, 
and  breathes  an  atmosphere  of  early-Georgian  repose. 
There  are  mediaeval  relics  in  plenty — a  grey,  old  cathe- 
dral, a  Norman  keep  and  piles  of  crumbling  masonry — 
but  these  are  only  background ;  it  is  a  scattered  region 
of  burial  places,  grass-grown  and  long  disused,  of  mellow 
red-brick  houses,  tiled  roofs,  green  turf  and  immemorial 
elms. 

It  was  on  our  return  from  Cobham  that  Mr.  Fairfield 
led  me  into  the  cathedral  precincts.  We  had  left  the 
village  after  sauntering  as  far  as  the  Leather  Bottle 
and  taking  a  turn  round  the  churchyard,  and  had  made 
our  way  back  to  Strood  by  the  old  Roman  highway. 

"  This  is  a  real  Dickens-land,"  he  said  as  we  passed 
under  the  gateway.  "  He  wished  to  be  buried  here. 
I  want  to  show  you  Minor  Canon  Corner,  where  Mr. 
Crisparkle  lived." 

Through  the  College  gateway,  past  the  parish  church 
of  St.  Nicholas  and  between  the  cathedral  burial-ground 
that  is  called  Green-Church  Haw,  and  the  old  parish 
burial-ground,  we  made  our  way  to  the  west  door  of  the 
cathedral ;  pausing  between  the  church  and  Green- 
Church  Haw,  to  look  at  the  ruins  of  Gundulf's  tower, 

334 


MINOR  CANON  ROW  335 

and  striking  off  to  the  left  for  a  moment,  to  get  a  nearer 
view  of  the  Deanery  Gate  and  peep  through  it  at  the 
Deanery  elms.  Skirting  the  west  side  of  the  cathedral 
and  following  the  roadway  past  a  huge  fragment  of 
battlemented  stonework,  now  serving  as  the  frame  of  a 
modern  door,  we  came  upon  Minor  Canon  Row — 
seven  red-brick  houses,  flanked  on  the  west  by  the 
Priory  Gate,  all  basking  in  the  sunshine  of  a  heavenly 
afternoon. 

"  This,  I  take  it,  is  where  the  south  wall  of  the  Priory 
used  to  stand ;  what  do  you  think  of  the  place  ?  " 

"  I  am  almost  inclined  to  wish  I  was  a  Minor-canon," 
was  my  answer. 

"  The  house  furthest  from  the  gateway  is,  or  was,  the 
organist's.  It  was  built  ten  or  twelve  years  later  than 
the  others ;  they  were  built  about  1722.  I  got  that 
out  of  the  '  History  and  Antiquities  of  Rochester ' — 
Wildash's  edition  of  1817.  I  routed  it  out  at  the 
British  Museum.  And  I  think  I  made  a  little  dis- 
covery." 

Here  Mr.  Fairfield  took  off  his  pince-nez  and  looked 
up  from  the  scrap  of  manuscript  which  he  had  been 
consulting. 

"  What  was  it  ?  "  I  asked,  well  knowing  that  this  was 
his  way  of  inviting  the  question. 

"  It's  nothing  much,  but  it  pleased  me.  When  I 
was  skimming  through  the  account  of  ancient  Rochester, 
I  was  once  or  twice  vaguely  reminded  of  what  Dickens 
says  about  the  place  at  the  beginning  of  the  third  chap- 
ter of  '  Edwin  Drood,'  and  before  I  put  the  book  back  I 
happened  to  turn  to  the  list  of  subscribers  at  the  be- 
ginning. Lo  and  behold  !  I  found  the  name  of  Mr. 
John  Dickens,  Chatham.  That  was  Dickens'  father. 
Now,  I  think  it's  almost  certain  that  Dickens  read  the 
book  when  he  was  a  boy.  He  was  only  five  in  1817, 
but  we  know  he  browsed  about  among  his  father's  books 
before  he  was  nine,  and  I  don't  suppose  there  were  so 
many  of  them  that  he  would  be  likely  to  overlook 


336    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

Wildash.  My  theory  is,  that  the  impression  the  book 
made  on  him  as  a  child  remained  there  fifty  years  later, 
when  he  was  writing  '  Edwin  DroodV 

"  But  he  must  have  read  many  other  books  about 
Rochester;  and  he  may  have  come  across  Wildash 
again,  years  and  years  after  he  grew  up." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  may  !  But  my  maxim  is — if  a  theory 
pleases  you,  stick  to  it,  so  long  as  it  doesn't  clash  with 
facts." 

"If  it  pleases  you,  why  not  stick  to  it  through  thick 
and  thin  ?  " 

"  That's  immoral — facts  are  facts,"  answered  Mr. 
F  airfield,  loftily.  "  A  man  must  preserve  the  captaincy 
of  his  soul" 

"  There's  an  earlier  edition  of  the  book,"  he  resumed, 
as  he  began  to  fumble  with  his  memoranda;  "  Forster 
knew  that  edition.  He  quotes  from  it  in  his  chapter  on 
Gadshill  Place,  but  he  doesn't  say  where  the  quotation 
comes  from.  He  speaks  of  '  a  history  of  Rochester, 
published  a  hundred  years  ago  ' ;  the  actual  date  is  1772. 
It  was  written,  according  to  Wildash's  preface  to  the 
second  edition,  by  an  Archdeacon  of  Rochester — a 
Doctor  Denne.  It's  a  capital  book,  and  it  has  a  capital 
motto  on  the  title-page — As  the  knowledge  of  ancient 
things  is  pleasant,  so  is  the  ignorance  as  shameful,  and 
oftentimes  exposes  men  to  the  scorn  and  contempt  of 
strangers — that's  out  of  the  preface  to  Somner's  '  Anti- 
quities of  Canterbury '." 

"I'll  try  and  bear  it  in  mind,"  said  I. 

We  passed  under  the  Priory  Gate  and  into  the  road 
that  skirts  the  gardens  of  Minor  Canon  Row.  The 
seven  old  houses  are  much  more  picturesque  when  seen 
from  the  back,  for  on  that  side  the  view  is  more  spa- 
cious and  there  is  no  curtain  of  brickwork  to  hide  their 
peaked,  red  roofs. 

"  The  best  rooms  must  be  at  the  back,"  said  my 
guide,  meditatively.  "  The  look-out  in  front  from  the 
lower  windows  is  nothing  to  boast  of.  Yes,  sir,  it  was 


MINOR  CANON  ROW  337 

in  one  of  the  back  rooms  that  Mr.  Crisparkle  and  the 
China  Shepherdess  used  to  breakfast." 

"  Now  you've  seen  this  place,"  he  went  on,  "  you 
must  let  me  read  you  Dickens'  description  of  it.  He 
calls  it  Minor  Canon  Corner : — 

"  They  were  a  good  pair  to  sit  breakfasting  together  in  Minor 
Canon  Corner,  Cloisterham.  For  Minor  Canon  Corner  was  a  quiet 
place  in  the  shadow  of  the  cathedral,  which  the  cawing  of  the  rooks, 
the  echoing  footsteps  of  rare  passers,  the  sound  of  the  Cathedral 
bell  or  the  roll  of  the  Cathedral  organ,  seemed  to  render  more 
quiet  than  absolute  silence.  Swaggering  fighting  men  had  had  their 
centuries  of  ramping  and  raving  about  Minor  Canon  Corner,  and 
beaten  serfs  had  had  their  centuries  of  drudging  and  dying  there, 
and  powerful  monks  had  had  their  centuries  of  being  sometimes 
useful  and  sometimes  harmful  there,  and  behold  they  were  all  gone 
out  of  Minor  Canon  Corner,  and  so  much  the  better.  Perhaps  one 
of  the  highest  uses  of  their  ever  having  been  there  was,  that  there 
might  be  left  behind,  that  blessed  air  of  tranquillity  which  per- 
vaded Minor  Canon  Corner,  and  that  serenely  romantic  state  of 
mind — productive  for  the  most  part  of  pity  and  forbearance — 
which  is  engendered  by  a  sorrowful  story  that  is  all  told,  or  a 
pathetic  play  that  is  played  out. 

"Bed-brick  walls  harmoniously  toned  down  in  colour  by  time, 
strong-rooted  ivy,  latticed  windows,  panelled  rooms,  big  oaken 
beams  in  little  places,  and  stone-walled  gardens  where  annual  fruit 
yet  ripened  upon  monkish  trees,  were  the  principal  surroundings 
of  pretty  old  Mrs.  Crisparkle  and  the  Reverend  Septimus  as  they 
sat  at  breakfast. 

Isn't  it  wonderful  how  he's  given  us  the  very  essence 
of  the  place?" 

"  Do  you  know  much  about  the  bishops  of  Ko- 
chester?"  My  friend  was  gazing  over  the  peaked 
roofs  at  the  tower  of  the  Cathedral  beyond  them.  To 
our  left  was  the  Priory  Gate,  and  not  far  from  it  the 
towering  majesty  of  the  Keep. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  them — or  any  other  bishops." 
"  Only  two  of  them  are  worth  remembering — Sprat 
and  Atterbury,"  he  remarked,  critically ;  "  and,  oddly 
enough,  one   succeeded   the   other.     Sprat   figures   in 
Johnson's  '  Lives,'  and  Atterbury  we  get  a  glimpse  of 
in  '  Esmond '." 
22 


338    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"You've  an  odd  notion  of  what  makes  a  bishop 
worth  remembering." 

"  Atterbury  really  was  an  interesting  person — he 
officiated  at  Addison's  funeral  for  one  thing,  and  he 
had  a  father  who  ought  to  have  been  an  archbishop." 

"  I  never  heard  of  the  old  gentleman." 

"  The  pity  is  we  know  so  little  of  him.  When  the 
bishop  was  a  young  curate,  his  prospects  weren't  very 
rosy.  I  suppose  this  depressed  him,  and  he  went  for 
comfort  to  his  sire.  '  You  have  only  to  put  your  trust 
in  God  and  marry  a  bishop's  daughter,'  said  the  good 
old  man.  He  was  a  rector  in  Buckinghamshire. 
There's  a  description  of  Sprat  in  that  book  on  Roch- 
ester— but  I  mustn't  shock  you." 

"I  think  I  can  stand  it,"  I  said,  laughing. 

"  It  says — '  His  parts  were  very  bright  in  his  youth, 
and  gave  good  hopes,  but  were  blasted  by  a  lazy  liber- 
tine course  to  which  his  temper  and  good  nature  carried 
him,  without  considering  the  duties,  or  even  the  decen- 
cies, of  his  profession '." 

"  Perhaps  it  isn't  true,"  I  suggested. 

"  True  or  false,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield,  solemnly,  "  it 
was  written  by  a  brother  bishop.  On  which  horn  of 
the  dilemma  will  you  seat  yourself?  " 

"  It's  shaken  my  faith  in  all  those  old-time  bishops 
of  yours,"  he  went  on;  "I  can't  trust  any  of  them, 
not  even  dear  '  old  man  Seabury '.  I'm  beginning  to 
doubt  whether  it  was  right  to  stick  him  up  in  Shake- 
speare's church.  He  may  have  been  no  better  than 
Sprat — only  artfuller.  And  as  for  their  clergy — dear ! 
dear !  " 

"  And  what  was  amiss  with  them — the  Rev.  Abraham 
Adams  and  Dr.  Primrose,  for  instance?  " 

"  I  don't  like  the  look  of  these  back  doors,"  he  an- 
swered, gloomily;  "they  positively  stare  you  in  the 
face." 

"  That's  so  ;  but  what  have  they  to  do  with  it?  " 

"  They  make  me  feel  uneasy  in  my  mind.     These 


MINOR  CANON  ROW  339 

houses  were  built  a  few  years  after  Sprat's  time,  and 
it's  occurred  to  me  that  his  influence  on  this  place  must 
have  been  very  evil.  I'm  very  much  afraid  these  back 
doors  were  put  in,  so  that  the  minor  canons  could  sneak 
out  under  cover  of  night  and  disport  themselves  with- 
out considering  the  duties  or  even  the  decencies  of  their 
profession." 

"  I  don't  quite  see  where  they  could  have  gone  to." 

"  Chatham,  of  course — there  are  plenty  of  singing 
and  dancing  places  there." 

The  existence  of  these  places  was  so  probable,  and 
Mr.  F airfield  spoke  with  so  much  conviction,  that  this 
remark  gave  a  stamp  of  reality  to  all  that  had  gone  be- 
fore. I  was  quite  ready  to  chop  nonsense  with  him. 

"  Isn't  it  a  pity  to  rake  up  such  a  very  old  scandal  ?  " 
I  urged.  "  Do  you  suppose  the  organist  in  the  end 
house  went  with  them  ?  " 

"More  than  likely!  If  not,  think  what  a  terror 
that  back  door  of  his  must  have  been  to  the  minor 
canons;  he  could  pounce  out  upon  them  at  any  mo- 
ment." 

Mr.  Fairfield  paused  to  consider  the  probabilities  of 
the  case,  and  then  gave  up  the  organist  as  a  bad  job. 

"  I'm  afraid  he  didn't  take  much  persuading,"  he  re- 
sumed, mournfully.  "  He  was  a  musician,  and  musi- 
cians as  a  class  are  a  bit  Bohemian." 

"  He  must  have  come  in  very  handy  when  the  sing- 
ing and  dancing  began." 

My  companion  pursed  up  his  mouth  and  stared  hard 
at  the  most  easterly  of  the  back  doors. 

"  He  could  hardly  have  taken  his  instrument  with  him, 
even  if  the  minor  canons  lent  a  hand,"  he  said,  slowly. 

"I  was  not  suggesting  that  he  took  the  cathedral 
organ.  That  would  have  been  sacrilege.  I  was  assum- 
ing that  he  was  musician  enough  to  be  master  of  a 
second  instrument — the  fiddle,  for  instance." 

"  No  doubt !  no  doubt !  And  if  that  was  so,  you  may 
bet  your  boots  they  didn't  leave  him  behind." 


340    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  There  is  really  nothing  to  laugh  at."  I  put  in  this 
reminder  because  my  friend's  austerity  seemed  to  be 
giving  way  to  inward  merriment. 

"  You  mustn't  be  too  hard  on  the  organist.  I  can 
make  excuses  for  him — always  supposing  he  didn't  take 
that  organ  with  him." 

"  You  think  he  could  plead  that  his  calling  had  blunted 
his  moral  sense?  "  I  suggested. 

"  Certainly  !  But  I'm  with  you  as  regards  the  minor 
canons  ;  their  case  was  different." 

"  One  hopes  they  met  with  their  deserts,"  said  my 
friend,  in  a  tone  which  showed  that  he  did  not  hope 
anything  of  the  kind  ;  "  but  my  view  is,  Sprat  was  most 
to  blame.  '  The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them.' " 

"  It's  chillyish  standing  here,"  he  said,  presently ;  "  let 
us  stroll  to  the  Vines.  They're  just  behind  us  on  the 
right.  It's  an  open  space  now ;  it  used  to  be  the  vine- 
yard of  the  priory.  Dickens  calls  it  the  Monks'  Vineyard. 
It  was  there  Her  Eoyal  Highness  the  Princess  Puffer 
warned  Edwin  Drood  that  there  was  trouble  brewing 
for  a  man  named  Ned.  And  we  can  have  a  look  at 
Bestoration  House,"  he  added,  as  we  moved  onward. 

After  dinner  that  evening  I  took  up  "  Edwin  Drood," 
and  my  friend  busied  himself  with  pencil  and  paper. 
I  could  see  that  he  was  making  a  plan  of  some  sort ; 
and  as  every  now  and  then  he  seemed  to  get  stuck, 
and  these  pauses  were  always  followed  by  his  gliding 
from  the  room,  paper  in  hand,  I  was  not  in  much  doubt 
as  to  the  exact  nature  of  his  employment. 

"  It's  a  tough  job,"  said  he,  when  I  looked  up  and 
his  eye  caught  mine ;  "  I  couldn't  have  believed  that 
any  place  could  be  so  rambling  as  this  house  is.  It's 
only  this  first  floor  that  I'm  trying  to  lay  down.  Do 
you  know  what  the  route  is  from  the  corridor  to  this 
room  ?  " 

"  All  I  know  is  we  pass  over  the  gateway.  I'm  sure 
of  that,  because  we  go  into  the  hotel  on  the  left  side, 
and  these  windows  are  on  the  other  side." 

"  Well,  this  is  the  route — Strike  off  to  left  of  corridor 


TO  COOLING  341 

— one  step  up — cross  recess — one  step  down — straight 
on — that's  really  over  the  gateway,  I  suppose — four 
steps  down — pass  No.  17,  Dickens'  room,  on  left — 
straight  on — four  steps  up  to  this  door.  That's  pretty 
good  for  steps,  considering  we're  a  first  floor  room,  look- 
ing out  on  the  street.  And  just  past  our  door  there  are 
six  more  steps  to  go  up." 

When  I  came  down  to  breakfast  next  morning  I 
found  my  host  poring  over  his  map.  "  Great  Expecta- 
tions "  lay  open  by  his  side. 

"I  should  very  much  like  to  get  to  Cooling,  if  we 
could  manage  it,"  he  said. 

"  Not  Chatham  dockyard?  " 

Mr.  Fairfield  closed  one  eye.  "  I  think  I  know  what 
that  meant.  I  thought  it  out  afterwards,.  Do  you 
mind  going  to  Cooling  ?  It's  the  place  where  Pip  was 
brought  up.  It  was  in  the  churchyard  that  the  convict 
sat  him  on  the  gravestone.  The  tombstones  of  Pip's 
little  brothers  are  there.  He  speaks  of  only  six.  For- 
ster  says  there  are  double  that  number.  If  s  a  very 
lonely  place  out  on  the  marshes." 

"  By  all  means  let  us  go.     How  far  is  it?  " 

"  It's  under  five  miles — as  the  crow  flies."  There 
was  an  ambiguity  about  this  which  confirmed  an  im- 
pression which  I  had  already  formed  from  Mr.  Fair- 
field's  manner.  It  was  quite  clear  that  for  some  reason 
or  other  a  pilgrimage  to  Cooling  was  no  trifle. 

"  Here  are  we,"  he  went  on,  turning  the  map  in  my 
direction  and  pointing  to  it  with  a  pencil,  "  and  here's 
Cooling." 

True  it  was  that  the  place  was  only  five  miles  north 
of  us ;  but  when  I  attempted  to  trace  the  way  my  head 
swam.  The  main  roads  avoided  Cooling  altogether, 
and  all  the  cross  roads  seemed  to  strike  off  to  the  right 
or  left,  or  to  stop  short  some  distance  to  the  south. 

"  It  does  look  awkward,"  was  my  friend's  admission 
as  he  noted  my  despair;  "  but  I've  got  a  penny  cyclist's 
guide  upstairs,  and  that  gives  a  very  good  route.  I'm 


342    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

sure  we  can  follow  it  quite  easily;  it's  only  seven  and 
a  half  miles." 

We  knew  the  way  to  Strood,  and,  aided  by  the  ord- 
nance map,  we  reached  Frindsbury  without  difficulty. 
There,  however,  the  penny  guide-book  came  into  play, 
and  from  the  moment  we  obeyed  the  first  of  its  direc- 
tions we  were  hopelessly  lost.  For  a  while  my  fellow- 
wanderer  refused  to  be  persuaded  that  there  was  any- 
thing amiss,  but  at  last  he  was  obliged  to  admit  that  we 
had  gone  astray ;  and  he  jerked  the  book  into  a  side 
pocket  with  a  muttered  comment  that  sounded  not 
unlike  an  imprecation. 

At  a  village  which  we  came  upon,  we  ascertained 
that  we  were  at  Wainscot ;  and  when  by  the  light  of 
this  information  we  had  been  able  to  ascertain  our 
bearings  from  Mr.  Fairfield's  map,  we  decided  that  the 
sooner  we  obtained  some  oral  guidance  the  better. 

A  native  who  was  repairing  a  cart  by  the  road-side 
advised  us  to  retrace  our  steps  in  order  to  gain  some 
turning  that  led  northward ;  but,  alas !  his  information 
as  to  the  distance  to  this  cross-road  was  very  vague, 
and  the  map  offered  us  no  corroboration  of  his  state- 
ments. 

"  Isn't  there  a  footpath  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Fairfield. 

The  answer  to  this  question  suggested  that  Wainscot 
stood  badly  in  need  of  a  village  Hampden — the  footpaths 
were  all  closed  by  government. 

"But  can't  we  get  there  this  way?  " 

After  gazing  at  the  road  ahead  of  us,  to  which  the 
speaker  was  pointing,  and  thinking  matters  over,  the 
native  admitted  that  this  was  possible.  On  being 
pressed,  he  went  further  and  intimated  that,  perhaps, 
it  was  the  best  way  after  all.  Then  he  began  to  give 
directions.  Of  these,  I  could  make  neither  head  nor 
tail,  though  several  times  I  caught  the  words  "  four- 
went  way,"  repeated  like  a  burden  or  refrain,  and  "  Hoo 
Mill "  always  followed  close  upon  them.  At  the  first 
pause,  Mr.  Fairfield,  who  had  been  listening  with  his 


HIGH  HALSTOW  343 

eyes  fixed  on  the  map,  thanked  the  man  and  declared 
that  the  course  was  quite  plain. 

"  I  found  Hoo  Mill,"  he  explained,  as  soon  as  we 
were  out  of  earshot.  "  We  come  to  four  cross-roads 
about  a  mile  further  on,  and  then  take  the  one  to  the 
left." 

"A  somewhat  thick-headed  gentleman,"  I  observed. 

My  friend  laughed.  "  A  buffle-headed  fellow;  but  I 
iked  that  '  four-went  way '.  He  was  referring  to  the 
jross-roads.  I  must  make  a  note  of  that.  I  trust 
;here's  some  footpath  near  the  mill.  We're  east  of 
Pooling  as  it  is ;  and  every  step  we  take  in  this  direction 
leads  us  further  past  it." 

"  This  is  the  road  to  Hoo,"  he  remarked  a  little  later. 
:'  Hogarth  and  his  friends  came  along  here.  But  we 
turn  off  a  good  bit  on  this  side  of  the  village." 

Before  we  reached  the  mill,  we  ascertained  at  a  way- 
side inn  there  was  no  footpath  to  Cooling,  and  that 
our  only  way  was  through  High  Halstow.  When  I 
ooked  at  the  map  I  groaned  in  spirit.  We  had  been 
•n  our  legs  for  more  than  two  hours ;  High  Halstow 
vas  nearly  three  miles  to  the  north-east  of  us,  and 
Cooling  lay  some  two  miles  to  the  west  of  High  Hal- 
sow. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  must  be  on  a  hill,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield 
vho  was  even  wearier  than  I  was.  The  wind  that  day 
vas  very  strong,  and  for  a  long  time  we  had  been  walk- 
iig  straight  in  the  teeth  of  it 

High  Halstow  was  indeed  set  on  a  hill :  a  hill  that  we 
cimbed  slowly  and  painfully.  All  the  way  up  our  eyes 
vere  fixed  upon  the  church  ;  for  that  marked  the  summit, 
aid  when  we  reached  it  we  made  straight  for  the  porch, 
thankful  were  we  to  find  a  seat  there,  as  well  as  a 
shelter  from  the  wind. 

"  Thames  or  Medway  ?  "  I  asked,  after  we  had  rested 
ourselves  for  a  while  in  great  content.  The  porch  com- 
manded a  wide  expanse  of  country,  stretching  away  to  a 
broad  river  far  in  front  of  us. 


344    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  Medway  ;  Sheerness  lies  somewhere  over  there." 

He  had  looked  at  the  map  before  answering,  and  he 
continued  to  pore  over  it  for  some  minutes. 

"  Anxious  times  here  in  June,  1667,  when  the  Dutch 
got  past  Sheerness  and  sailed  nearly  to  Chatham,"  he 
said  at  length.  "  They  burned  or  took  all  the  English 
ships  that  came  in  their  way,  until  they  drew  off  at  the 
approach  of  Prince  Rupert.  I  guess  he  found  some  of 
his  old  soldiers  eager  to  serve  under  him  again,  when  he 
came  into  these  parts.  Wherever  Bupert  went,  he 
must  have  come  across  plenty  such." 

"  There  must  have  been  many  watchers  on  this  hill," 
resumed  Mr.  Fairfield.  "  They  got  a  good  view  of  the 
Dutchmen." 

We  both  sat  silent  for  some  time  and  gazed  at  the 
distant  river.  Truly,  the  watchers  from  High  Halstow 
must  have  had  a  good  view  of  De  Ruyter's  tall  ships,  as 
they  made  their  way  up  stream. 

"  Dry  den  tells  us,"  said  my  friend,  "  that  the  cannon- 
ading was  heard  in  London — the  sound  was  like  distant 
thunder,  or  the  noise  of  swallows  in  a  chimney,  he  says. 
Fireships  were  used  to  the  best  of  my  recollection.    The 
river  must  have  been  an  awful  sight  from  here  to  ar 
Englishman  who  loved  his  country.     It  was  known  al 
about  that  the  Dutch  were  carrying  everything  befori 
them ;  Pepys  found  at  Gravesend  that  the  people  hai 
removed  their  goods  for  fear  of  the  place  being  occupied 
Yes,  sir,  it  looked  as  if  the  old  country  was  going  unde 
that  time — 

The  mighty  ghosts  of  our  great  Harries  rose, 
And  armed  Edwards  looked  with  anxious  eyes. 

That's  Dryden  :  he  wrote  it  the  year  before — the  annut 
mirabilis — but  the  Dutch  inspired  it.  Magnificent 
lines;  aren't  they?  The  conception's  so  fine — the 
warrior  kings  rising  from  their  graves  to  watch  the 
battle — and  did  you  ever  come  across  anything  more 
subtle  than  that  double-barrelled  alliteration  in  the 


"  EDWIN  DROOD  "  345 

second  line  ?  I  don't  know  another  to  match  it ;  I'm  not 
sure  that  I  know  another  at  all." 

"  Do  you  actually  read  Dryden?" 

"  I've  read  nearly  every  word  of  him ;  but  that  means 
turning  yourself  into  a  sort  of  literary  mud-lark.  Just 
you  get  Johnson's  '  Lives '  and  Lowell's  '  My  Study 
Windows  '.  Johnson's  '  Life  '  of  him  is  splendid,  and 
Lowell's  essay  is  even  better.  It's  glorious !  " 

"  You  looked  through  '  Edwin  Drood '  last  night," 
he  said,  when  we  had  left  the  porch,  and  were  making 
our  way  westward,  with  the  Thames  in  full  view  across 
the  marshlands  on  our  right,  and  on  the  same  low  level, 
a  hamlet  or  two,  and  a  church  that  stood  out  from 
everything  else. 

"  Yes — full  steam  ahead  most  of  the  time  ;  but  when- 
ever I  came  upon  anything  that  looked  like  a  clue  to 
the  mystery,  I  slowed  down  and  took  soundings." 

"  That  was  just  what  I  wanted ;  it  was  very  good  of 
you.  I  noticed  you  were  doing  some  marking  with  a 
pencil  now  and  then." 

"  I  got  a  bit  bitten,  myself,  to  tell  the  truth." 

"  And  how  did  Jasper  murder  him?  " 

"  I  suppose  he  strangled  him  with  the  silk  scarf  he 
wore  that  Christmas  Eve.  It  was  quick  and  painless — 
Jasper's  mutterings  in  the  opium  den  prove  that." 

"  Good !     And  where  was  it  done  ?  " 

"  Somewhere  in  the  cathedral,  I  suppose ;  but  where, 
I  don't  quite  know.  But  if  not  there,  why  did  Jasper 
get  Durdles  to  take  him  there  that  night,  so  that  he 
could  drug  him  and  get  the  keys?  " 

"  Good  again !  "  By  this  time  Mr.  Fairfield,  who  had 
started  from  the  porch  with  weary  limbs,  which  worked 
like  machinery  in  want  of  oiling,  had  shaken  off  all 
symptoms  of  fatigue,  and  was  boiling  over  with  enthu- 
siasm. "  You  don't  think  the  falling  of  the  stones 
and  the  tearing  off  of  the  clock  hands  that  night, 
had  anything  to  do  with  the  murder  ? "  he  asked 
eagerly. 


846    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  No ;  it's  incredible  that  the  man  was  thrown  down 
from  the  tower." 

"  I  agree !  And  where  was  the  lime  that  ate  up  the 
body  and  left  nothing  but  the  ring  behind  ?  " 

"  That  baffles  me." 

"  And  me  too ;  I  did  so  hope  that  you  would  strike 
out  something." 

"  There's  no  getting  at  it.  One  thought  at  first  it 
was  the  lime  in  Durdles'  yard,  which  is  mentioned  just 
before  the  mysterious  visit  to  the  cathedral  that  night ; 
but  Jasper  said  in  his  mutterings  that  he  had  done  the 
thing  in  his  dreams  many  times  beforehand,  and  always 
in  the  same  way." 

"  True ;  but  couldn't  the  lime  have  been  in  the 
crypt?" 

"  If  so,  why  did  Jasper  leave  the  cathedral  after  he'd 
drugged  Durdles  and  got  his  keys  ?  " 

"  You're  sure  he  did  leave  it?  " 

"  If  not,  why  was  he  so  furious  when  he  found  De- 
puty in  the  Close,  when  he  and  Durdles  turned  out  of 
the  cathedral  ?  He  thought  the  boy  had  been  spying 
on  him ;  and  that  couldn't  have  been  if  Jasper  had 
stayed  inside  all  the  time.  And  yet  it's  hard  to  believe 
that  Dickens  meant  him  to  carry  the  body  through  the 
streets.  It  seems  absurd." 

"  You  give  it  up,  then  ?  " 

"Yes!  Don't  you?" 

Mr.  Fairfield's  answer  was  a  deep  sigh.  "I've  given 
it  up  over  and  over  again  ;  but  whenever  I  take  the 
book  up  afresh  I  begin  to  puzzle  my  brains  over  it." 

"  It's  a  pity  you  took  it  up,  then." 

"  But  I  rather  think  I  like  to  puzzle  over  it,"  he  an- 
swered, laughing.  "  It's  not  fair  to  bother  you  with 
it ;  but  there's  just  one  other  point — can  you  imagine 
how  the  unwritten  half  of  the  book  was  to  be  filled  up  ? 
There  seems  so  little  left  of  the  story  to  fill  six  more 
numbers." 

"  That  occurred  to  me.     I'm  not  at  all  sure  we  weren't 


AT  COOLING  347 

to  hear  something  more  about  '  The  Thorn  of  Anxiety  '. 
Bazzard's  tragedy  wasn't  mentioned  for  nothing ;  per- 
haps we  were  to  have  some  theatrical  sketches." 

"  If  they  were  to  have  been  anything  like  Mr.  Wopsle's 
'  Hamlet,'  it's  a  thousand  pities  we  lost  them.  You 
don't  feel  any  doubt  that  Bazzard  was  Datchery?  " 

"  I  suppose  he  must  have  been ;  but  there's  such  a 
difference  between  Bazzard  and  Datchery  that  I  think 
Dickens  intended  to  develop  Bazzard  into  something 
important,  and  this  would  have  explained  the  inconsis- 
tency. Bazzard  may  have  been  as  different  out  of 
office  hours  as  Wemmick  was.  And  I'm  not  sure  that 
the  Billickin  wasn't  intended  to  help  in  the  plot.  She 
was  a  cousin  of  Bazzard's,  remember!  " 

My  friend's  enthusiasm  had  died  down  before  we 
reached  Cooling.  It  was  almost  in  silence  that  we  ac- 
complished the  last  weary  mile  of  our  pilgrimage.  Act- 
ing upon  the  advice  of  a  native,  we  were  cutting  off  a 
corner  by  taking  a  field  path,  when  I  saw  an  inn  on 
the  high  road,  a  little  way  off  to  our  right. 

"We'll  lunch  before  going  further;  we  can  see  the 
churchyard  afterwards,"  I  said,  as  I  turned  off  into  a 
track  that  led  to  the  back  door. 

"  Certainly ;  by  all  means ;  I  really  am  quite  tired," 
was  the  meek  response.  For  once  in  his  life,  Mr.  James 
C.  Fairneld  of  Chicago  was  only  too  glad  to  pause  in 
the  course  of  a  ramble,  with  the  thing  sought  for  yet 
unseen. 

"  It's  a  bad  business  this  getting  near  the  sixties,"  he 
said,  mournfully,  as  we  sat  in  the  bar  parlour  of  the 
Horseshoe  and  Castle  and  consumed  bread  and  cheese. 

"  It's  a  bad  business  to  be  misled  by  a  penny  guide- 
book ;  we  must  have  come  at  least  ten  miles  against 
wind  and  over  hilly  country.  I'm  abominably  tired 
myself." 

"  You'd  think  nothing  of  it,  old  boy !  "  This  remark 
was  addressed  to  the  inn  dog,  who  had  come  in  and 
made  himself  most  agreeable,  and  who  now  lay  by  the 


348    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

fireplace,  and  was  startling  us  at  short  intervals  by  a 
sharp,  friendly  bark,  followed  by  a  thumping  of  his  tail 
upon  the  floor. 

"I  do  like  this  dropping  into  little  hostelries,  and 
taking  your  ease  for  as  long  as  ever  you  like.  It  seems, 
somehow,  to  bring  one  back  to  the  leisurely,  hospitable 
England  of  Fielding  and  Smollett." 

By  this  time  Mr.  F  airfield  was  snugly  established  in 
a  corner  chair  with  his  feet  supported  upon  another  chair, 
and  a  cigar  was  in  full  blast. 

"  Dickens  must  have  known  this  inn  well.  I  suppose 
he  had  it  in  mind  when  he  described  the  scenes  in  the 
Three  Jolly  Bargemen,  though  he  wasn't  at  all  photo- 
graphic when  he  was  dealing  with  this  place  in  '  Great 
Expectations '. " 

"  He  may  have  been  in  this  very  room,"  I  suggested. 

"  If  ever  Dickens  was  here,"  he  said  laughing,  as  he 
scrutinized  an  engraving  that  hung  near  his  chair,  "  he 
must  have  delighted  in  this.  It's  the  portrait  of  the 
Bight  Honourable  William,  Baron  Panmure  of  Brechin 
and  Navar,  cetat  sixty-seven." 

I  crossed  over  and  looked  at  it.  The  right  honourable 
baron  sat  in  a  well-padded  chair  and  grasped  a  snuff-box. 
The  lower  part  of  his  countenance  was  so  magnificently 
developed,  that  it  threw  the  upper  part  into  insignifi- 
cance. 

"  A  fine  old  English  gentleman !  "  said  I,  approvingly  ; 
"  Dickens'  beau  ideal  of  a  member  of  the  Upper  House, 
advanced  in  years." 

"  He  certainly  did  not  love  a  lord,  and  perhaps  he  was 
not  always  fair  to  the  tribe  ;  but  now  I  can  make  excuses 
for  him.  How  I  wish  I  could  hang  this  among  my 
Dickens  things,  as  a  sample  of  the  British  noblemen 
who  were  his  contemporaries." 

When  we  paid  our  bill — it  amounted,  I  think,  to 
eightpence,  including  drinks — we  asked  the  landlord 
for  directions  as  to  the  shortest  way  back  to  Rochester. 
Mine  host  and  a  friend,  who  was  seated  on  a  bench 


AT  COOLING  349 

against  the  wall,  showed  so  much  surprise  when  Mr. 
F  airfield  began  to  make  a  note  of  the  answer,  that  I 
thought  it  advisable  to  explain  what  our  warderings  had 
been  that  morning.  The  fact  that  we  had  come  to 
Cooling  by  way  of  High  Halstow,  excited  no  little 
mirth  in  the  landlord  and  his  crony,  but  my  confidences 
had  the  desired  effect ;  Mr.  F  airfield  was  able  to  jot  down 
the  particulars  of  a  route,  so  clear  in  its  elaboration  and 
so  full  of  landmarks,  that  we  both  felt  confident  that  to 
go  astray  would  be  impossible. 

"  This  is  something  Like,"  said  the  scribe  complacently, 
as  we  stood  in  the  road  and  he  scanned  his  memoran- 
dum ;  " intelligent  man  that.  A  pity  he  isn't  older!  I 
rather  hoped  to  learn  something  here,  but  he  wasn't 
born  in  1870." 

"  It's  a  bad  business  that  so  many  of  the  inhabitants 
of  this  district  aren't  getting  near  the  sixties,"  I  sug- 
gested. "  Under  that,  they  are  mere  cumberers  of  the 
ground." 

"  It's  ungrateful  to  say  so  when  they're  so  useful  for 
telling  you  the  way,"  he  retorted,  with  an  air  of  grave 
rebuke.  "  By-the-bye,  these  marshes  don't  look  very 
desolate.  I  suppose  the  sunshine  makes  a  difference." 

"  Are  we  to  perambulate  them?  " 

Mr.  Fairfield  surveyed  the  long  green  stretches  dotted 
with  cattle,  that  lay  between  us  and  the  distant  river, 
and  shook  his  head. 

"  I'll  go,  if  you  insist  on  it,"  he  answered  laughing ; 
"  but  I  warn  you  I  may  be  tempted  to  follow  Mr. 
Wopsle's  example.  He  got  very  tired,  you  may  re- 
member, when  they  came  back  over  these  marshes  after 
finding  the  convicts,  and  he  insisted  on  sitting  down  in 
the  damp  to  such  an  insane  extent,  that  when  his  coat 
was  taken  off  to  be  dried  at  the  kitchen  fire,  the  circum- 
stantial evidence  of  his  trousers  would  have  hanged  him, 
if  sitting  down  had  been  a  capital  offence.  Joe  carried 
Pip  on  his  back." 

"  I  remember  he  did ;  it  was  good  of  him,  but  you 


350    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

mustn't  count  on  my  being  able  to  do  anything  of  the 
same  sort." 

"  Perhaps  under  the  circumstances,  we  had  better 
make  for  the  church ;  it's  quite  close — in  the  book  it's 
a  mile  from  the  village." 

Even  Mr.  Fairfield  admitted  that  the  churchyard  on 
the  marshes  was  something  of  a  disappointment.  As 
we  saw  it,  that  cold  spring  afternoon,  it  had  little  in 
common  with  the  desolate,  nettle-grown  churchyard  of 
"  Great  Expectations  "  ;  for  the  green  landscape  beyond 
the  wall  was  pleasant  to  look  upon,  and  the  place  itself 
was  in  good  order.  And,  worst  of  all  in  my  companion's 
eyes,  the  King's  highway  ran  along  one  side  of  it. 

Near  the  porch  we  found  the  graves  of  the  Comport 
family — thirteen  little  mummy-shaped  tombstones,  lying 
in  two  ranks — three  in  front  and  ten  in  rear — with  the 
parental  tombstone  standing  upright  between  them. 
My  companion  stooped  down  and  plucked  some  butter- 
cup leaves  from  beside  one  of  the  little  graves. 

"  I'm  disappointed  in  the  look  of  the  place,"  he  said ; 
"  but  after  all,  we  see  it  as  he  saw  it ;  and  we're  stand- 
ing where  he  stood  many  and  many  a  time.  He  was 
fond  of  bringing  people  here.  Forster  says  it  was  one 
of  his  favourite  walks  in  autumn  or  winter,  when 
he  could  get  to  it  across  the  stubble  fields." 

"  I  wish  we  could  get  back  to  Kochester  by  the  same 
way." 

"  So  do  I,  most  devoutly ;  but  I'm  glad  we  came. 
I've  always  wanted  to  see  Cooling  churchyard." 

"  And  after  all,"  he  said,  smiling,  as  we  turned  away 
from  the  Comport  graves,  shivering  in  the  icy  blast 
that  was  blowing  across  the  marshes  that  afternoon, 
"  there's  one  thing  here  that  doesn't  fall  short  of  one's 
expectations — a  more  abominable  wind  never  chilled  my 
marrow." 


"  A  SCORE  O'  YEARS  AGO  "       351 

POSTSCRIPT 

A  SCORE  O'  YEARS  AGO 

(Rochester,  1667.) 

The  Dutchmen  ride  on  Chatham  tide  ;  they've  burst  the  river  boom  ; 
He's  master  here,  the  Furrineer,  and  all  the  folks  in  gloom  : 
There's  naught,  they  vow,  to  stop  him  now  from  laying  London  low, 
But  you  and  I  were  Rupert's  men  a  score  o'  years  ago. 
So  polish  up  the  old  steel  cap  and  dress  the  bandoleer  ! 
There's  little  time  to  trim  and  prime  with  Rupert  drawing  near, 
And  aught  amiss  in  wind  or  limb  we  mustn't  let  him  know, 
For  Rupert's  all  that  Rupert  was  a  score  o'  years  ago. 

He's  spurring  down  from  Windsor  town,  and  soon  we'll  have  him 

here; 

He's  riding  hard,  with  flag  and  guard  and  trumpets,  all  in  rear  ; 
And  when  we  greet  him  soldierwise,  he'll  look  us  through  and 

through, 

And  answer  each  in  soldier  speech,  a  prince  and  comrade  too : 
There's  records  in  those  eyes  of  his,  as  records  well  may  be : 
The  wear  and  tear  of  time  and  care,  and  war  on  land  and  sea ; 
But  how  they  flash  and  sparkle  too,  for  all  the  lines  they  show, 
And  Rupert  rides  as  Rupert  rode  a  score  o'  years  ago  ! 

It's  do  or  die  with  Rupert  by ;  he'll  rouse  the  lazy  ones ; 
He'll  sound  a  call  to  hearten  all  that  man  the  Upnor  guns  : 
We'll  hear  his  music  once  again,  and  well  the  Dutchmen  know 
There's  something  more  than  schnaps  in  store   when  Rupert's 

trumpets  blow. 

De  Ruyter,  he's  a  cockrel  too,  but  if  he  tries  a  main, 
He'll  see  St.  Paul's  and  prison  walls  before  he  fights  again  ; 
He'll  make  his  way  to  London  Tower  with  all  his  ships  in  tow, 
For  Rupert  fights  as  Rupert  fought  a  score  o'  years  ago. 


CHAPTEE  XXVIII 
COBHAM  WOODS  AND  EASTGATE  HOUSE 

"  HAVE  you  noticed  the  seaweed  over  there,  clinging  to 
the  stonework,  by  the  baths,  just  as  it's  mentioned  in 
'  Pickwick  '  ?  You  can  see  it  better  from  the  Esplan- 
ade." 

It  was  on  Eochester  bridge  that  Mr.  Fairfield  asked 
this  question.  We  were  on  our  way  to  Cobham,  through 
the  woods,  and  we  had  paused  to  watch  the  little 
billows  sparkling  in  the  sunshine.  There  was  a  fresh 
breeze  blowing,  but  there  was  no  bite  in  it  that  perfect 
spring  morning. 

Thanks  to  the  map  it  was  easy  to  find  a  way  to  Cob- 
ham  woods.  Within  a  few  minutes  of  our  turning  out 
of  the  main  street  at  Strood,  we  were  crossing  a  field 
where  the  young  corn  was  springing.  To  the  right  and 
left  of  us,  the  tiny  shoots  were  just  visible  above  the 
brown  earth,  which,  for  all  their  presence,  looked  as 
brown  as  in  the  sowing  time  ;  but  on  the  uplands  close 
at  hand,  the  sunshine  was  resting  upon  a  fresh  young 
green  that  clothed  them  as  with  a  garment. 

My  fellow-pilgrim  loitered  in  the  footpath  and  followed 
with  his  eye  the  swell  of  the  land,  where  the  brown 
melted  imperceptibly  into  the  green.  The  chaffinches 
were  flying  about  the  hedgerows,  and  the  air  was  musical 
with  the  song  of  the  lark. 

"  I'm  almost  ashamed  to  confess  that  this  is  the  first 
time  I've  noticed  the  '  mantle  slowly  greening  in  the 
sun,'  "  he  said.  "  That's  Tennyson — it's  a  lovely  poem 

352 


COBHAM  WOODS  353 

4  The  Progress  of  Spring,'  and  I'm  particularly  fond  of 
the  last  part  of  the  opening  verse — 

Come,  Spring,  for  now  from  all  the  dripping  leaves 

The  spear  of  ice  has  wept  itself  away, 
And  hour  by  hour,  unfolding  woodbine  leaves, 

O'er  his  uncertain  shadow  droops  the  day. 
She  comes  !     The  loosen'd  rivulets  run  ; 

The  frost-bead  melts  upon  her  golden  hair  ; 
Her  mantle,  slowly  greening  in  the  Sun, 

Now  wraps  her  close,  now  arching  leaves  her  bare 

To  breaths  of  balmier  air. 

As  one  gets  on  in  years,  every  Spring  seems  more 
lovely  than  the  last,"  he  went  on ;  "  and  one  does  so 
long  for  it  to  come,  too." 

"  And  yet  the  poets  associate  it  with  youth." 
"  Yes,  and  young  love!  That's  right  enough  in  a 
way.  The  springtime  smells  of  youthfulness  all  our 
lives  long — and  no  wonder ;  for  after  all,  it's  Nature  re- 
newing her  youth.  When  we're  young,  we  associate  it 
with  some  young  person  of  the  o'pposite  sex,  and  when 
we're  older  we  associate  it,  somehow,  with  our  own  lost 
youth.  I've  often  thought  there's  something  pathetic 
in  our  longing  for  it  so — we  oldsters. 

Come,  Spring  !    She  comes  on  waste  and  wood, 
On  farm  and  field  ;  but  enter  also  here, 

Diffuse  thyself  at  will  thro'  all  thy  blood, 
And  tho'  thy  violet  sicken  into  sere, 
Lodge  with  me  all  the  year  !  " 

"  There's  not  so  much  about  it  in  the  later  poets, 
is  there  ?  " 

"Perhaps  not,  except  in  Tennyson.  He's  as  mad 
about  it  as  the  Elizabethans  were,  and  it's  more  won- 
derful in  his  case." 

"Why?" 

"  The  winter  was  a  duller  time  with  them  than  it  is 
with  us — more  trying  too ;  and  their  working  hours  were 
so  different.  Think  at  what  an  unearthly  time  every- 
one got  up  in  the  morning ;  and  think  what  miserable 
23 


354    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

lighting  they  had  in  their  homes,  and  how  abominable 
their  roads  were !  You  can't  wonder  that  they  bubbled 
over  a  bit  when  Spring  came.  You  read  that  song  at 
the  end  of  '  Love's  Labour 's  Lost,'  which  begins  '  When 
icicles  hang  by  the  wall,'  and  then  read  that  song  of 
Nash's  on  the  first  page  of  the  '  Golden  Treasury  '- 

Spring,  the  sweet  Spring,  is  the  year's  pleasant  king  ; 
Then  blooms  each  thing  ;  then  maids  dance  in  a  ring  ; 
Cold  doth  not  sting  ;  the  pretty  birds  do  sing — 
Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-wee,  to-witta-woo  ! 

And  you  mustn't  forget  they  all  lived  in  the  country  in 
a  sense ;  even  the  town  people  had  the  Spring  at  their 
very  doors." 

My  friend's  desire  to  ramble  to  Cobham  through  the 
woods  was  undoubtedly  Pickwickian  in  its  origin ;  but 
the  young  corn,  and  the  poetical  associations  which  it 
had  called  up,  had  for  the  time  being,  banished  all 
thought  of  Dickens  from  his  mind. 

"  And  out  once  more  in  varnished  glory  shine 
The  stars  of  celandine," — 

he  repeated,  as  he  paused  before  a  hedgerow  and  peered 
down  into  the  bank.  "  How  they  do  light  the  place  up ! 
Do  you  remember  poor  old  Wordsworth's  woolly  mor- 
alizings  over  them?  What  are  those  green  things 
with  leaves  something  like  hartstongues  ?  " 

"  Lords  and  ladies — it's  the  wild  arum,  I  think ; 
there's  a  wonderful  show  of  them  in  these  parts." 

"  I  never  heard  of  them ;  and  yet,  I  can't  believe 
there  is  a  common  spring  flower  that  isn't  mentioned 
somewhere  by  the  old  English  lyrists.  I  must  make  a 
note  of  lords  and  ladies." 

"  Country  people  call  them  stink-pots." 

"  Possibly  that's  why  the  old  poets  forbore  to  mention 
them,"  suggested  Mr.  Fairfield,  pausing  in  the  middle 
of  a  note.  He  grinned  as  he  paid  this  tribute  to  the 
fastidious  delicacy  of  those  ancient  minstrels. 


COBHAM  WOODS  355 

When  we  reached  the  woods,  the  spring  ferment  in 
my  friend's  mind  bubbled  up  to  a  pitch  that  was  quite 
Elizabethan.  He  seemed  to  forget  my  presence,  as  he 
slouched  along  the  path  in  front  of  me,  with  bent  head 
and  rounded  shoulders,  and  regaled  himself  with  scraps 
of  spring  poetry.  One  fragment  that  reached  me  was 
an  exhortation  to  Corinna,  a  "  sweet  slug-a-bed,"  to  get 
up,  and  go  with  him  a-maying. 

There  was  an  almost  laughable  incongruity  between 
this  snatch  of  Herrick,  and  the  grey,  elderly  figure  of 
the  pilgrim  from  Chicago ;  but  he  followed  it  up  by  a 
still  bolder  flight.  He  burst  forth  into  muffled  song — 

"  Hark,  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies  ; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes  : 
With  every  thing  that  pretty  bin  ; 

My  lady  sweet,  arise, 

Arise, 
My  lady  sweet,  arise  !  " 

"  '  The  red  blood  reigns  in  winter's  pale,' "  he  said 
laughing,  when  we  stopped  to  listen  to  the  "  cheep- 
cheep-cheep  "  of  an  infuriated  robin,  and  he  saw  that  I 
was  amused.  "  It's  the  springtime  that's  to  blame. 
It's  proud-pied  April's  fault,  that  heavy  Saturn  laughs 
and  leaps  with  him." 

There  were  primroses  in  the  woods,  and  in  stooping 
to  pluck  one,  Mr.  Fairfield  came  upon  a  violet.  He 
stood  holding  it  between  thumb  and  finger,  and  gazing 
upon  it  like  a  man  in  a  dream ;  but  unless  I  was  much 
mistaken,  his  eyes  were  too  misty  to  see  anything  very 
clearly.  He  told  me  afterwards,  that  never  before  had 
he  chanced  upon  an  English  wood-violet,  or  been  in 
England  in  early  springtime. 

It  was  not  until  we  had  left  the  woods  and  were 
passing  Cobham  Hall,  that  Mr.  Fairfield  made  any 
reference  to  Dickens. 


356    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  We've  come  the  way  Mr.  Pickwick  and  Snodgrass 
and  Winkle  took,  when  they  traced  Tupman  to  the 
Leather  Bottle,"  he  said,  "  and  it's  the  way  Dickens 
says  he  took  after  feasting  the  Six  Poor  Travellers. 
There's  the  Hall.  What  a  capital  view  you  get  of  two 
sides  of  it  at  this  time  of  year !  " 

In  passing,  I  may  here  say  that  during  our  stay  in 
Eochester,  we  knocked  at  the  door  of  Bichard  Watts' 
hospital  in  the  High  Street,  and  spent  a  pleasant  half- 
hour  there,  under  the  guidance  of  the  matron.  We 
saw  the  modern  room  in  which  the  Six  Poor  Travellers 
have  their  suppers  and  entertain  themselves  till  bed- 
time, and  we  rejoiced  to  find  that  there  was  a  good 
stock  of  well-thumbed  magazines,  to  temper  the 
austerity  of  the  pious  volumes  provided  for  their  mental 
refreshment.  We  saw,  too,  the  ancient  gallery  and 
the  six  sleeping  rooms  with  their  big  chimneys;  and 
we  turned  over  the  visitors'  book,  in  which  under  date 
of  the  eleventh  of  May,  1854,  appear  the  autographs  of 
Charles  Dickens  and  Mark  Lemon. 

It  was  interesting  to  learn  that  it  was  not  very  un- 
usual for  the  matron  to  be  told  by  a  stranger,  after  she 
had  shown  him  over  the  place  as  a  visitor,  that  in  lean 
years  gone  by,  he  had  been  thankful  to  spend  a  night 
there  as  a  Poor  Traveller.  Nowadays,  the  six  are 
chosen  near  the  bridge,  but  at  the  time  when  the 
"  Seven  Poor  Travellers  "  was  written,  they  were  chosen 
in  the  street  outside  the  hospital.  The  story  runs,  that 
Dickens  gained  admission  by  giving  one  of  the  chosen 
ones  half-a-crown  in  exchange  for  his  ticket. 

After  having  seen  the  place  it  was  doubly  pleasant 
to  read  what  Dickens  wrote  about  the  hearth,  which 
the  charity  of  Bichard  Watts  has  kept  warm  for  over 
three  hundred  years;  and  it  was  pleasant  to  think  that 
Dickens  had  been  the  means  of  restoring  that  charity 
to  its  proper  channel  Pleasant  too,  to  know,  that  de- 
spite the  efforts  of  certain  pundits  at  Whitehall,  the 
desire  of  the  founder  that  six  poor  travellers  should  every 


THE  LEATHER  BOTTLE         357 

night  enjoy  his  bounty  in  the  ancient  city  of  his  adop- 
tion, had  not  been  disregarded,  and  that  his  injunction 
to  the  persons  in  charge,  to  keep  the  place  sweet  and 
"  courteously  entreat  the  said  poor  travellers,"  seemed 
quite  safe  in  the  hands  of  the  present  custodian. 

At  the  Leather  Bottle  at  Cobham,  the  landlord  was 
courteous  enough  to  serve  our  modest  repast  of  biscuits 
and  cheese  in  what  is  called  the  "  Pickwick "  room, 
and  which  purports  to  be  the  "  long  row-roofed  room  " 
where  Mr.  Pickwick  and  his  two  companions  discovered 
Mr.  Tupman  consoling  himself  with  roast  fowl  and 
bacon.  It  is  now  a  well-equipped  museum  of  portraits 
and  relics.  Before  seeking  the  inn,  we  had  saun- 
tered through  the  college  and  had  peeped  into  the 
hall ;  and  we  had  wondered  whether  Dickens  had  the 
place  in  mind  when  he  wrote  "  The  Haunted  Man," 
and  whether  Stanfield  had  a  faint  recollection  of  it, 
when  he  drew  his  picture  of  the  great  Dinner  Hall  that 
forms  the  tailpiece  of  the  original  edition. 

There  were  two  soldiers  cruising  round  the  Pickwick 
room  when  we  began  our  lunch.  There  was  no 
mistaking  the  interest  which  they  took  in  the  pictures 
and  relics ;  and  many  were  the  whispered  discussions 
that  they  held  before  one  and  another  of  them. 

"  Intelligent  fellows,  those  sergeants  !  "  remarked  Mr. 
Fairfield,  as  soon  as  they  departed.  "  They're  a  fine 
body  of  men,  your  non-commissioned  officers ;  I  never 
lose  an  opportunity  of  having  a  chat  with  them.  If  I'd 
had  half  a  chance  of  breaking  the  ice  with  those  two, 
I'd  have  found  out  what  they  knew  about  Dickens." 

"  They  ought  to  like  him ;  he  was  particularly  happy 
in  his  soldiers." 

"  He  was  splendid — better  than  any  one  who  went 
before  him.  Just  think  of  George  in  '  Bleak  House ' 
and  his  friend  the  gunner,  and  that  magnificent  Old 
Girl!  And  there's  Dick  Doubledick  and  his  captain, 
and  there's  that  French  corporal  in  '  Somebody's  Lug- 


358    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  Do  you  remember  the  sergeant  in  '  Great  Expecta- 
tions '  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  sure  he  isn't  the  pick  of  the  basket.  Man 
alive !  is  there  anything  better  in  all  Dickens  than  that 
page  or  two,  where  that  sergeant  asks  Joe  to  mend  the 
handcuffs,  and  he  drinks  toasts  with  Uncle  Pumble- 
chook?  " 

My  friend  was  all  aglow  by  this  time.  "  Mr.  Swin- 
burne thinks  the  waterside  '  Jack,"  near  the  end  of  the 
book,  one  of  Dickens'  finest  bits.  So  he  is ;  but  the 
'  Jack '  isn't  a  patch  upon  the  sergeant." 

"I've  just  been  thinking,"  he  said,  coming  out  of  a 
reverie,  a  little  later — "  I've  just  been  thinking,  there 
are  several  notable  sergeants  in  literature.  I  feel  an 
interest  in  them,  for  I've  worn  the  chevrons  myself." 

"  There's  the  bleeding  sergeant  in  '  Macbeth '." 

My  friend  laughed.  "  I'd  forgotten  him.  He's  a 
terrible  person — a  sort  of  bleeding  chorus.  He  isn't 
Shakespeare's  at  all,  really.  I  began  my  list  with  Far- 
quhar ;  Sergeant  Kite  in  the  '  Recruiting  Officer '  was 
the  earliest  I  thought  of.  He  was  one  of  the  famous 
parts  of  old  comedy.  There's  a  deal  of  humour  in  Far- 
quhar ;  he's  a  little  like  Goldsmith  in  some  of  his  touches. 
It's  a  pity  he's  such  a  beast." 

"  There's  Sergeant  Bothwell  in  '  Old  Mortality  '." 

"  I  thought  of  him ;  but  he  doesn't  come  next.  My 
second  sergeant  came  out  of  Fielding.  He  was  Amelia's 
foster-brother,  Sergeant  Atkinson.  He  got  a  commission, 
and  so  did  Sergeant  Doubledick." 

"  Isn't  there  a  sergeant  in  '  Vanity  Fair '  ?  I  seem 
to  remember  something  about  one,  in  the  scene  in 
Hyde  Park,  where  little  George  is  introduced  to  little 
Rawdon." 

"  He  wasn't  a  sergeant,"  said  my  friend,  after  a 
moment's  reflection ;  "  he  was  Corporal  Clink  of  the 
Guards — I'm  not  sure  that  the  British  Guards  have 
sergeants.  He  introduced  little  George  to  Rawdon 
Crawley.  Little  Rawdon  was  there  on  the  pony  Lord 


THE  LEATHER  BOTTLE          359 

Southdown  gave  him,  and  the  other  boy  was  put  up 
behind.  What  a  pretty  scene  it  is  !  How  capital  all 
Thackeray's  boys  are." 

"  Do  you  remember  little  Miles,  and  how  he  took  his 
gold  moidore  to  George  and  Theo,  because  he'd  heard 
they  were  so  poor?  " 

"  I  do,  indeed ;  that  was  in  Church  Street,  Lambeth. 
He  had  a  pony  too.  A  little  patter  of  horses'  hoofs 
came  galloping  up  to  the  gate — " 

Mr.  Fairfield  broke  off ;  and  for  a  minute  or  two  he 
sat  drawing  at  his  cigar  very  slowly,  and  with  an  absent 
look  on  his  face.  When  he  spoke  again,  I  knew  that 
his  thoughts  had  been  " out  yonder". 

"  It's  a  heart-breaking  little  chapter.  There's  some- 
thing about  the  child  running  upstairs  to  see  Theo  and 
the  baby,  in  the  little  tramping  boots  of  which  he  was 
so  proud.  It's  some  years  since  I  read  it ;  the  truth  is, 
I  don't  like  reading  about  little  boys  who  die."  Grand- 
father Fairfield  made  this  confession  with  a  simplicity 
that  went  to  my  heart. 

There's  another  corporal  in  Thackeray — that  horrible 
old  Brock  in  '  Catherine,' "  he  resumed,  "  and  we're 
forgetting  the  biggest  fish  in  the  basket — Corporal  Trim." 

"Do  soldiers  care  for  Dickens?"  I  asked  later  in 
the  afternoon,  when  we  were  making  our  way  towards 
Shorne,  past  coppices  where,  a  day  or  two  before,  the 
saplings  had  stood  out  in  individual  nakedness,  and 
where  now  there  was  an  universal,  misty  shimmer  of 
pale  green,  which  told  that  spring  had  come  at  last. 

"  I  think  so.  Those  two  sergeants  at  the  Leather 
Bottle  reminded  me  of  something  that  happened  to 
me  in  Westminster  Abbey.  I  was  mooning  about 
Poets'  Corner  one  Saturday  afternoon,  and  I  noticed  a 
big  trooper  of  your  Life  Guards  standing  still  and  star- 
ing about  him,  in  an  awkward  sort  of  way.  He  was 
just  the  sort  of  soldier  that  so  irritated  Daudet,  when 
he  was  in  England — a  gigantic  fellow,  in  a  tight  blue 
jacket  which  pinched  him  at  the  waist.  I  didn't  see 


360    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

any  wonderful  arrogance  in  his  face  though,  but  then  I 
don't  belong  to  a  Latin  race.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he 
had  a  very  ordinary,  simple  countenance.  I  could  see 
he  was  looking  for  something.  His  eye  passed  over  the 
busts  and  statues — Shakespeare — Thackeray — Dryden 
— Scott — Tennyson — Longfellow,  and  a  score  of  others 
— without  interest  or  any  sort  of  recognition.  Then  he 
caught  sight  of  me,  and  he  came  clanking  across  the 
pavement — '  Where  is  Charles  Dickens'  grave  ?  '  I've 
often  thought  of  that  big  soldier." 

We  found  Shorne,  and  sauntered  for  a  while  about 
the  churchyard  that  Dickens  loved  to  sit  in  on  hot 
summer  afternoons ;  and  thanks  to  the  map,  we  made 
our  way  by  field-paths  to  Gadshill.  We  came  out  in 
the  Dover  road,  a  little  to  the  west  of  the  house. 

"  He  came  by  here,  when  he  drove  home  from 
Gravesend  station  on  his  return  from  America,"  re- 
marked my  friend,  meditatively.  "  That  was  early  in 
May,  1868.  He  drove  in  a  basket  phaeton — I  wonder 
if  the  ponies  with  the  silver  bells  were  in  it — and  two 
newfoundlands  followed.  They  lifted  up  their  heads 
to  have  their  ears  pulled  by  their  master.  The  farmers 
turned  out  in  their  market-chaises  to  welcome  him,  and 
all  the  houses  along  the  road  were  flagged." 

"  He  was  frightfully  knocked  up,  wasn't  he?" 

"  He  was  when  he  left  New  York,  but  the  voyage 
had  done  wonders,  and  after  he'd  been  resting  here  for 
a  little  time,  he  seemed  to  get  quite  himself.  He  never 
really  was  the  same  after  that  awful  tour,  but  the  mis- 
chief didn't  show  much  that  summer.  It  seems  to 
have  been  one  of  the  gayest  times  they  ever  had  at 
Gadshill.  Longfellow  was  one  of  the  visitors.  In  his 
honour,  Dickens  turned  out  two  post  carriages  with  pos- 
tilions in  the  red  jackets  of  the  '  old  red,  royal  Dover 
road,'  and  there  was  a  picnic  on  Bluebell  Hill — that's 
about  halfway  between  Rochester  and  Maidstone." 

"  I  was  reading  in  one  of  your  books  about  an  ex- 
cursion to  Canterbury  with  the  red  postilions." 


EASTGATE  HOUSE  361 

"  That  was  in  June,  1869.  They  drove  there, 
picnicking  on  the  way.  That  was  Dickens'  last  visit 
to  Canterbury — Dolby  says  they  went  through  Faver- 
sham,  but  I  think  that's  a  mistake." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  out  of  the  way.  The  road  from  here 
to  Canterbury  is  a  straight  line,  and  as  old  as  the  hills. 
At  one  time  the  mail  coaches  passed  through  Faver- 
sham  by  taking  two  sides  of  a  triangle,  and,  perhaps, 
Dickens  did  the  same.  I  like  to  follow  your  old  coach- 
ing roads.  I  never  move  about  the  country  without  a 
small  '  Paterson  ' — second  edition,  1772 — that  I  picked 
up  years  ago.  I  know  the  old  way  from  London  to 
Canterbury  almost  by  heart — Greenwich,  Shooter's 
Hill, — do  you  remember  Jerry  Cruncher  overtaking  Mr. 
Lorry's  coach  there  ? — Welling,  Dartford — that  was  the 
first  change — Northfleet,  Chalk  Turnpike,  Gadshill, 
Strood,  Kochester,  Chatham,  Rainham,  Sittingbourne. 
There  are  three  or  four  little  places  between  that  and 
Canterbury,  but  I've  forgotten  their  names." 

We  made  a  long  halt  when  we  reached  Gadshill 
Place ;  and  after  some  inward  conflict,  Mr.  F airfield 
rooted  up  from  the  wall  a  few  strands  of  stonecrop,  and 
bore  them  away  in  his  cigar-case,  carefully  embedded  in 
Kentish  earth. 

We  did  not  forget  to  devote  a  long  morning  to  East- 
gate  House.  The  moment  that  Mr.  Fairfield  crossed 
the  threshold  his  enthusiasm  rose  to  boiling  point.  He 
could  not  forbear  saying  a  word  of  admiration  to  the 
grey-haired  military -looking  official,  who  took  our  walk- 
ing sticks,  and  that  functionary  proved  to  be  as  en- 
thusiastic as  himself.  It  was  pleasant  to  hear  the 
custodian  enlarging  upon  the  beauties  of  his  charge,  and 
sounding  the  praises  of  the  Corporation  for  having  ac- 
quired and  restored  it ;  and  it  was  comical  to  hear  Mr. 
Fairfield  chiming  in  with  a  like  fervour  and  conviction. 
The  two  got  so  friendly  that  when,  at  last,  we  moved  on, 


362    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

I  believe  the  custodian  would  have  gladly  forfeited  a 
week's  wages  to  be  free  to  act  as  cicerone  to  that  ap- 
preciative visitor. 

The  present  writer's  recollection  of  the  time  which 
he  and  his  companion  spent  in  that  old  mansion,  is 
not  very  clear  as  to  details ;  but  when,  in  his  mind's 
eye,  he  sees  those  Elizabethan  rooms,  with  their  small, 
square  panelling,  quaint  windows  and  noble  fireplaces, 
and  he  recalls  the  thoroughness  and  loving  care  that 
mark  every  feature  of  the  restoration,  he  too  feels  his 
heart  warm  towards  the  Mayor,  Aldermen  and  Burgesses 
of  the  City  of  Rochester,  and  he  ventures  to  breathe  a 
hope  that  their  example  may  prompt  other  corpora- 
tions to  go  and  do  likewise. 

"  There's  only  one  thing  in  this  place  that  I  can  find 
any  fault  with,"  said  Mr.  Fairfield,  when,  having  gone 
through  all  the  rooms,  and  made  a  tolerably  faithful  in- 
spection of  the  articles  that  are  exhibited  in  some  of 
them,  we  had  returned  to  the  great  white  chamber  on 
the  first  floor ;  "  and  that  is  the  bust  of  Dickens  below. 
I  don't  presume  to  criticize  it  as  a  work  of  art,  but 
nothing  will  persuade  me  that  he  had  a  gilt  moustache." 

"  It  struck  me  as  a  little  out  of  the  common." 

"  A  gilt  moustache  is  an  improbable  thing  in  itself ; 
and  it's  impossible  to  believe  that  if  Charles  Dickens 
had  sported  such  a  rarity,  his  contemporaries  wouldn't 
have  noticed  it.  We  should  have  some  record  of  the  fact, 
sir." 

"  What  a  room  this  is,"  he  said,  his  eyes  still  twink- 
ling with  the  enjoyment  of  his  own  facetiousness ;  "  and 
it's  more  than  three  hundred  years  old.  Fifteen-ninety- 
one  is  the  date  cut  upon  that  beam  across  the  ceiling. 
Just  think  of  more  than  ten  generations  of  men  and 
women  having  passed  through  it!  Why,  when  this 
house  was  built,  there  were  lots  of  people  living  who 
had  seen  Henry  the  Eighth.  Just  think  of  the  changes 
in  dress,  and  in  habits  and  in  folks'  ways  of  looking  at 
things,  in  three  hundred  years !  It  comes  home  to  one 
so  in  an  old  family  house  like  this " 


EASTGATE  HOUSE  363 

"  But  I  thought  the  place  was  a  school  ?  "  I  interposed. 

"  Surely,  you  don't  suppose  that  a  house  like  this  was 
built  for  a  school !  "  was  my  friend's  almost  irritable  re- 
tort. "  I  daresay  its  career  as  a  school  goes  a  long  way 
back,"  he  went  on.  "Put  it  as  far  back  as  Queen 
Anne's  time,  if  you  like,  and  that  leaves  more  than  a 
century  unaccounted  for." 

"  It's  a  noble  fireplace,"  said  I,  conscious  that  my  in- 
terruption had  been  inconsiderate. 

"  It's  glorious.  Can't  you  fancy  some  old  cavalier 
warming  his  toes  before  those  blue  tiles? — reading  a 
folio  Shakespeare  perhaps ;  some  old  chap  rusting  out 
the  fag  end  of  his  life  under  the  Commonwealth.  I 
hope  he  didn't  sit  here  dipping  his  poor  old  nose  into  a 
tankard,  and  bemoaning  the  days  gone  by." 

My  friend  spoke  as  if  he  saw  his  old  cavalier  in  the 
flesh,  and  was  doubtful  only  as  to  the  exact  nature  of 
his  employment,  as  he  sat  before  that  generous  hearth. 

"  Were  you  thinking  of  Sir  Henry  Lee?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  no !  As  things  went  in  those  days,  he  was 
reasonably  well  off ;  he  had  a  daughter,  and  he  had  his 
own  roof  to  cover  him.  My  old  cavalier  was  Sir  Ashby 
Freestonhay : — 

I  gave  the  King  my  house,  my  land ;  I  gave  my  golden  store ; 
I  gave  him  all  my  five  tall  sons — I  could  not  give  him  more. 

And  two  were  slain  at  Chalgrove  Field,  and  two  on  Newark  wall  ; 
But  yet  I  had  my  youngest  born,  the  best-beloved  of  all. 

And  oft  I  murmured  in  the  field,  when  we  were  side  by  side, 
'  Accept^  O  Lord,  the  ripened  ear  and  let  the  green  abide  ! ' 

But  I  was  doomed  to  bear  alone  the  bitter  days  that  are — 
He  fell  with  flying  lovelocks,  on  the  hillside  at  Dunbar." 

"  I  hope  the  old  gentleman  lived  to  see  the  Bestora- 
tion,"  said  I. 

"  Better  not !  Men  of  his  stamp  had  a  heart-breaking 
time,  then  and  afterwards — 

But  worth  must  wither  with  kings  like  Charles, 
And  the  hands  that  kinged  him  were  Albermarle's. 


364    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

That's  how  Mr.  Beesly  puts  it.  Marvell  had  anticipated 
him  in  that  queer  rhyme,  by  the  way.  If  our  old  cava- 
lier hung  on,  he  may  have  sat  in  this  room  and  heard 
De  Euyter's  guns  booming  up  the  Medway.  That 
wouldn't  make  him  very  happy." 

"  Let  us  have  another  look  out  upon  the  Dover  road 
before  we  go,"  he  suggested,  and  we  moved  across  to 
the  deep  bay  window,  that  faces  the  hearth,  and  is  it- 
self a  tiny  room.  So  far  does  it  project  that  the  south 
side  commands  a  good  view  of  the  High  Street. 

"  I  never  before  was  in  a  very  old  house  that  stood 
beside  one  of  your  great  main  roads,"  he  said  musingly, 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  thoroughfare.  "  It's  not  easy 
to  grasp  the  fact  that  more  than  ten  generations  have 
stood  at  this  window  and  looked  out  upon  that  street ; 
and  when  you  think  of  what  there  was  for  them  to  look 
at,  one's  brain  reels." 

"  Shakespeare,"  I  suggested,  knowing  that  the  name 
never  failed  to  kindle  him. 

"  Yes,  Shakespeare  rode  by  here — and  he  had  his 
cloak  with  him.  He  wouldn't  travel  forth  without  it, 
when  he  had  a  journey  to  Dover  before  him.  I  hope 
he  wasn't  obliged  to  spur  his  poor  beast ;  I  hate  that 
line  in  the  Sonnets  about  the  wretch  answering  heavily 
with  a  groan." 

"  I  daresay  he  made  that  sonnet  on  horseback,"  he 
went  on.  "  The  steady  trampling  of  a  horse,  who  had 
to  go  all  day,  would  be  just  the  thing  to  set  a  poet  to 
work.  It  would  be  nothing  more  than  a  walk ;  it's 
wonderful  what  a  lot  of  ground  a  horse  can  cover  at 
that  pace.  I'm  thinking  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney  :  he  used 
to  hammer  out  his  verses  on  horseback.  He  says  so — 

Highway  !  since  you  my  chief  Parnassus  be, 
And  that  my  Muse,  to  some  ears  not  unsweet, 
Tempers  her  words  to  trampling  horses'  feet, 
More  oft  than  to  a  chamber  melody. 

He  can't  have  passed  this  house,  though ;  I'm  pretty 
sure  he  died  before  1591." 


EASTGATE  HOUSE  365 

"  Have  you  noticed  that  letter  from  Wellington  in  the 
Bull  coffee-room,  written  in  November,  1842,  ordering 
posthorses  to  be  ready  for  him?  "  I  asked.  "  He  must 
have  passed  here." 

"No  doubt ;  and  Marlborough  too,  and  Prince  Eupert. 
Wellington  must  have  passed  many  a  time — he  was  War- 
den of  the  Cinque  Ports,  and  I'm  pretty  sure  the  way 
to  Walmer  lay  through  Canterbury.  And  think,  too, 
how  often  Pitt  must  have  passed,  when  he  was  Lord 
Warden — perhaps  in  regimentals  sometimes.  He  must 
have  been  a  queer  figure,  when  '  out  he  rode  a-colonel- 
ling '.  And,  by  the  way,  Wellington  drove  by  this  house 
when  he  came  home  from  the  Peninsular  campaign. 
I  forget  where  I  read  about  it ;  but  I'm  sure  he  landed 
at  Dover  very  early  one  morning.  No  one  knew  when 
he  would  arrive,  but  the  guns  saluted  his  ship ;  and 
the  whole  town  turned  out  on  the  beach  to  welcome 
him.  He  took  a  post-chaise  to  London,  and  he  out- 
raced  everything  else  on  the  road,  and  he  wasn't  re- 
cognized till  he  got  to  Westminster.  That  was  in  June, 
1814.  It's  interesting  to  think  of  his  galloping  past 
this  window,  and  not  a  soul  in  Bochester  knowing 
who  he  was.  How  familiar  the  sound  of  the  post- 
horn  must  have  been  in  this  house  when  the  place  was 
young !  There  was  some  regulation,  which  made  the 
postboys  wind  it  pretty  often ;  and  then,  think  of  the 
coaches !  I've  read  in  one  of  the  guide-books  that 
ninety  coaches  passed  over  Gadshill  every  day." 

"  We  shall  stand  here  till  midnight,  if  I  begin  talk- 
ing about  the  Dover  road,"  he  said  laughing,  as  he 
straightened  himself,  preparatory  to  making  a  move ; 
"I'm  not  equal  to  coping  with  the  ghosts  of  more  than 
three  centuries.  Till  the  railways  came,  everybody 
went  by  this  house.  We'll  leave  it  at  that." 

"  Perhaps  they  heard  a  posthorn  here  so  late  as  June, 
1869,"  I  observed,  meaningly. 

Mr.  James  C.  Fairfield  is  "  very  gleg  at  the  uptake  ". 
"  I  forgot  that,"  he  said  instantly,  and  he  stepped  back 


366    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

to  have  one  more  look  into  the  High  Street.  "  The 
posthorns  aren't  mentioned ;  but  posthorns  or  no  post- 
horns,  the  red  postilions  went  by  here." 

POSTSCRIPT 
THE  OLD  ENGLISH  LYRISTS 

(Written  in  an  Anthology) 

A  tear  for  the  daffadowndillies 
That  die  in  the  sweet  o'  the  year  ; 
A  smile  for  the  shy  Amaryllis 
Who  flees  from  her  lover  in  fear  ; 
A  mocking  arraignment  of  Phyllis — 
Mirth,  melody,  pathos  are  here. 

A  garland  of  roses  and  myrtle 
A  wreath  for  the  Goddess  of  Love  : 
A  hymn  to  her  swan  and  her  turtle, 
Or,  when  we  alight  from  above, 
A  rapture  to  Julia's  kirtle, 
An  ode  upon  Annabel's  glove. 

A  cadence  that  falls  and  recovers, 
To  ravish  the  ear  as  it  flows  ; 
A  music  that  pauses  and  hovers, 
Most  exquisite-sweet  to  the  close — 
O  Lovelace  our  lover  of  lovers  ! 
O  passionate  strain  of  Montrose  ! 

A  music  to  calm  or  to  fever — 
The  strings  are  a-quiver  with  ire ; 
And,  lo  !  at  the  will  of  the  weaver, 
A  harmony  breathes  from  the  lyre 
More  soft  than  "  the  wool  of  the  beaver," 
More  sweet  than  "the  bud  of  the  brier  ". 

No  less  than  a  score  are  our  featest, 
So  deftly  they  rise  and  they  fall, 
But,  tried  by  the  test  that  is  meetest 
— The  music  we  love  to  recall — 
There  is  one  who  is  ever  the  sweetest  : 
SWEET  WILL  is  the  sweetest  of  all. 

And  here  is  a  hoard  of  their  treasure, 
A  garner  o'erflowing  with  grain, 
The  fruit  of  their  toil  and  their  leisure, 
The  sum  of  their  joy  and  their  pain  ; 
And  I  sing  to  each  merry  old  measure, 
And  run  through  the  gamut  again. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

WE  INSPECT  THE  BUFF-JERKINS  AND  MATCH- 
LOCKS IN  ROCHESTER  CATHEDRAL 

"  I  WONDER  you  take  so  little  interest  in  the  cathedral." 

"  I  almost  wonder  at  it  myself,"  was  Mr.  Fairfield's 
half-serious  answer. 

We  were  pottering  about  the  Close  on  the  morning 
of  our  last  day,  when  I  made  my  remark.  He  seemed 
never  to  weary  of  the  old  houses,  and  the  old  walled 
gardens,  with  here  and  there  a  gigantic  lilac  showing 
above  the  crumbling  stonework,  and  it  struck  me  as 
odd  that  he  should  treat  the  cathedral  with  indifference. 
We  had  once  or  twice  peeped  in  through  the  great 
west  doorway;  but  though  on  one  occasion,  when  he 
was  busy  at  the  Bull,  reading  and  making  notes,  I  had 
spent  an  hour  or  so  within  the  walls,  he,  to  the  best  of 
my  belief,  had  never  crossed  the  threshold. 

"  I  take  no  interest  in  architecture  as  architecture," 
he  explained;  "and  I  don't  think  I  care  much  for 
buildings  of  any  kind,  apart  from  their  associations 
with  one's  fellow-creatures." 

"  And  why  not  take  an  interest  in  cathedral  people  ?  " 

"  They  don't  seem  to  me  like  fellow-creatures.  I'm 
not  speaking  of  the  moderns ;  I  mean  the  mediaevals. 
I  simply  can't  form  any  conception  of  what  the  big 
men  were  like ;  and  as  for  the  small  fry,  they  seem  to 
me  to  have  been  no  better  than  so  many  mites,  living 
and  dying  in  an  old  cheese." 

"  That's  a  very  narrow  view,"  I  protested,  laughing. 

"  I'm  almost  ashamed  of  it  myself,  for  I  don't  think 
367 


868    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

I  could  justify  it,  if  I  were  put  to  the  question.  But 
right  or  wrong,  that's  how  I  feel ;  and  I  can  no  more 
take  an  interest  in  a  cathedral  because  of  its  associations, 
than  I  can  take  an  interest  in  a  beehive." 

"  Do  you  remember  what  Dalgetty  thought  of  a  cer- 
tain highlander's  spiritual  condition,"!  asked,  solemnly. 
I  knew  that  the  passage  was  one  of  his  favourites. 

"  Perhaps  you  think  the  same  of  me,"  he  suggested, 
with  a  twinkling  eye.  "  Well,  I  hope,  you're  better 
qualified  to  form  an  opinion  than  he  was." 

" '  I  believe  my  friend  Ranald  will  be  found  in  his 
heart  to  be  little  better  than  a  heathen,' "  he  quoted, 
admiringly.  "  What  an  exquisite  touch  of  character, 
that  is !  But  you're  wrong  in  thinking  that  there's 
anything  heathenish  in  my  view.  I  daresay  it's  the 
fault  of  my  early  environment ;  but  the  truth  is,  I  can't 
associate  these  great  places  with  anything  but  pageantry, 
and  that  sort  of  thing  doesn't  appeal  to  me  at  all.  Ec- 
clesiastical pageantry  stinks  in  my  Puritan  nostrils." 

"  I  rather  want  to  see  the  choir  again,  now  I've  re- 
read '  Edwin  Drood '." 

"  I've  seen  it  three  or  four  times ;  and  I've  seen  the 
crypt  and  been  up  the  tower,"  he  answered,  grinning ; 
"  and  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I've  been  over  the  whole 
place.  This  isn't  my  first  visit  to  Rochester.  I  don't 
pretend  to  be  an  ecclesiologist,  but  I'm  not  quite  a 
savage.  By-the-by,  when  I  was  last  here,  one  of  the 
vergers  told  me  that  the  original  of  Durdles  was  a 
drunken  old  German  mason,  who  lived  at  a  public-house 
in  the  High  Street." 

"  I  suppose  you  won't  mind  seeing  the  choir 
again?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least,  if  you  won't  mind  my  dropping  a 
hint  to  the  guide,  that  we  don't  want  the  various  orders 
of  architecture  enlarged  upon.  That  sort  of  thing  bores 
me  beyond  endurance." 

I  waited  with  some  interest  to  hear  that  hint  dropped, 
but  I  waited  in  vain.  From  the  moment  we  sur- 


ROCHESTER  CATHEDRAL       369 

rendered  ourselves  into  the  verger's  custody,  the  de- 
scendant of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  hung  spellbound  upon 
his  lips ;  and  for  nearly  two  hours  he  dealt  with  us  as 
he  would.  There  is  something  in  my  friend's  enthu- 
siasm that  never  fails  to  strike  an  answering  fire  from 
out  any  cicerone  who  is  proud  of  his  charge  ;  and  truth- 
fully I  can  aver  that,  of  all  the  guides  we  met  with  in 
our  rambles,  not  one  was  more  responsive  than  our 
verger  at  Rochester. 

"  I  had  a  sort  of  notion  we  might  come  here  this 
morning,"  remarked  Mr.  Fairfield  as  he  fished  out  his 
pocket-book,  and  began  to  cut  and  shuffle  the  memo- 
randa it  contained.  By  this  time,  we  had  passed 
through  the  choir  and  had  paused  to  admire  the  vista 
westward.  "  Where  does  the  precentor  sit  ?  " 

Our  guide  pointed  out  one  of  the  two  desks  on  the 
north  side  of  the  choir,  which  stood  out  beyond  the 
others. 

"Ah!  So  that's  where  Jasper  stood  that  brilliant 
morning,  and  chanted  and  sang  and  became  musically 
fervid.  And  Deputy  peeped  in  from  the  nave  yonder, 
and  Datchery  sat  in  one  of  those  stalls.  But  where  on 
earth  is  there  a  pillar  to  hide  the  Princess  Puffer?  " 

The  forlorn  air  with  which  Mr.  Fairfield  put  this 
question  was  too  much  for  the  verger's  gravity.  Smil- 
ing very  broadly,  he  intimated  that  he  could  offer  no 
opinion,  as  he  never  read  "  Edwin  Drood  ". 

If  my  friend  had  been  the  Dean  of  Rochester,  and 
our  guide  had  just  admitted  with  a  laugh  that  he  had 
never  read  the  Church  Catechism,  Mr.  Fairfield  could 
not  have  regarded  him  with  a  more  compassionate  re- 
proachfulness. 

"  You  must  give  me  your  name  and  address,"  he  said, 
as  he  brought  out  a  pencil.  The  child  of  darkness 
laughed  again,  as  he  furnished  the  desired  particulars. 

"  It  was  that  pillar,"  asserted  the  enthusiast  with 
great  decision,  as  soon  as  he  had  recovered  from  the 
shock.  "  That  puts  her  on  the  left-front  of  the  pre- 
24 


370    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

center's  desk ;  and  she  must  have  crouched  down  and 
kept  out  of  his  sight,  somehow." 

The  verger  and  I  looked  from  the  desk  to  the  pillar, 
and  our  eyes  met.  Then  the  verger  stroked  his  chin 
and  covered  his  mouth  with  his  hand. 

"  We  had  better  leave  it  at  '  somehow,'  "  said  I. 

Some  muskets  and  buff-coats,  which  were  shown  to  us 
in  a  little  boxed-off  place,  near  the  entrance  to  the  crypt, 
and  which  were  said  to  have  been  left  behind  by 
Oliver's  soldiers,  and  not  discovered  until  many  years 
afterwards,  awoke  in  Mr.  Fairfield  an  interest  that  sur- 
prised me.  It  was  unusual  for  him  to  be  much  im- 
pressed by  personal  relics  of  no  particular  history ;  but 
as  soon  as  these  articles  had  been  pointed  out  he  be- 
came wholly  engrossed  in  them.  He  examined  them 
with  close  attention,  and  it  was  impossible  to  get  him 
away  until  he  added  a  note  or  two  to  his  memoranda. 

"  This  is  quite  a  discovery,"  was  his  triumphant 
whisper.  "  Dickens  knew  of  these  things.  He  had 
them  in  mind  when  he  made  Jingle  speak  of  matchlocks 
and  buff-jerkins  in  connexion  with  the  cathedral.  I 
don't  remember  exactly  what  he  says,  but  it's  something 
about  little  Saxon  doors — confessional  boxes — buff-jerkins 
— matchlocks  and  so  forth.  I  don't  believe  the  reference 
has  ever  been  explained.  One  thing  at  least  is  certain 
— Mr.  Hammond  Hall  doesn't  explain  it;  and  that 
goes  a  long  way — " 

My  friend  pulled  up  abruptly  ;  for  the  verger,  who  had 
left  us  for  a  moment  to  speak  to  a  colleague,  had  now 
come  back  within  earshot.  The  great  discovery  must 
not  be  allowed  to  leak  abroad,  prematurely. 

"  And  these  carvings  are  the  sort  of  thing  some  people 
call  very  interesting,"  was  Mr.  Fairfield's  envenomed 
comment  as  he  stared  at  the  chapter-house  doorway. 

"Why  shouldn't  it  be  interesting  to  people  if  they 
think  it  symbolizes  the  triumph  of  the  Gospel  over  the 
Law?" 

"  I  shouldn't  mind,  if  I  thought  it  had  an  intelligent 


ROCHESTER  CATHEDRAL       371 

meaning  of  any  sort,  but  as  likely  as  not,  it's  the  mere 
frenzy  of  some  addle-brained  old  symbolist  of  the 
middle  ages." 

"  It  must  have  had  some  meaning  to  him." 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  daresay  he  knew  whether  that  left-hand 
figure  ought  to  be  a  woman,  as  it  now  is,  or  a  bishop,  as 
it  was  till  they  changed  the  head.  Nowadays,  we're 
told  it's  a  woman ;  fifty  years  hence,  some  learned 
ecclesiologist  will  be  saying  it  ought  to  be  an  ele- 
phant." 

"  I  so  detest  that  symbolical  work ;  I  can't  discuss  it 
with  common  patience,"  he  explained  to  me  afterwards. 
"  You  never  get  any  forrader,  if  you  try  to  puzzle  it  out. 
And  I'll  tell  you  why — the  people  who  take  to  that  sort 
of  thing  always  get  so  muddle-headed,  no  one  can  ex- 
plain their  mysteries  but  themselves." 

"So  many  men,  so  many  readings!"  he  continued, 
and  he  began  to  emphasize  his  words  with  a  waving 
forefinger,  as  was  his  custom  when  picking  his  phrases. 
"  And  it's  just  the  same  with  music.  You  play  a  piece 
descriptive  of  something,  and  then  ask  your  audience 
what  has  been  described.  '  The  Battle  of  Waterloo,' 
says  Tom.  '  A  caravan  crossing  the  Great  Sahara,' 
says  Dick.  '  Nonsense,'  says  Harry ;  '  the  thing's  as 
plain  as  a  pikestaff — it's  the  meditation  of  a  lighthouse- 
keeper'  ! " 

"  Well,  fortunately,  it  doesn't  matter  two  straws." 

Caring  nothing  for  music  or  archaeology,  my  friend 
was  quite  ready  to  subscribe  to  this  proposition,  but 
before  he  had  committed  himself,  it  struck  him  that 
the  principle  involved  might  be  extended  to  certain  pet 
hobbies  of  his  own. 

"  No,  no ;  we  ought  always  to  get  at  the  truth,"  said 
he.  He  uttered  this  sentiment  with  virtuous  gravity, 
and  at  the  same  time  he  closed  his  left  eye. 

Before  I  leave  the  subject  of  the  cathedral,  I  feel 
bound  to  put  on  record  that  one  of  the  remarks  made 
by  me  during  our  perambulation  was  a  little  unlucky. 


372    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

"  That's  the  deanery,"  said  our  guide,  when  we  were 
standing  at  a  small  doorway,  situate  somewhere  at  the 
east  end  of  the  building. 

"  And  that,  I  suppose,  is  the  deanery  garden,"  I  re- 
marked, in  all  innocence. 

I  confess  that  the  enclosure  to  which  I  was  pointing 
was  of  limited  extent ;  and  speaking  from  recollection, 
it  contained  nothing  more  distinctly  horticultural  than 
grass  and  bushes ;  but  beyond  all  question  it  was  a 
garden  of  some  sort,  and  through  it  ran  a  pathway,  that 
undoubtedly  went  up  to  the  house.  Why,  under  these 
circumstances,  my  observation  should  lead  Mr.  Fairfield 
and  the  verger  to  exchange  glances  of  pity  and  con- 
tempt was  incomprehensible.  After  a  pause,  my  friend 
was  kind  enough  to  enlighten  me. 

"  The  Dean  of  Eochester  is  Dean  Hole,"  he  said 
frostily. 

"  The  finest  rose  garden  in  England,"  murmured  the 
verger,  by  way  of  clinching  the  rebuke. 

"  You  want  to  pack  up,  I  suppose,"  I  observed,  as 
we  turned  out  of  the  west  door.  I  had  noticed  that  my 
friend  had  consulted  his  watch  more  than  once  during 
the  last  half-hour. 

"  No ;  the  truth  is,  I  want  to  have  a  look  at  the  ball- 
room, before  they  take  away  last  night's  trimmings.  I 
forgot  all  about  it  till  we  were  inside  the  cathedral." 

For  some  days  past,  his  devotion  to  the  ballroom  had 
not  been  forced  upon  my  notice.  I  had  one  morn- 
ing made  with  him  what  may  be  called  the  grand 
tour  of  the  hotel,  which  had  of  course  included  that 
magical  chamber;  and  we  had  then  inspected  among 
other  things,  the  so-called  "  Pickwick  "  rooms,  the  bed- 
stead in  which  Queen  Victoria  slept  a  few  months  be- 
fore her  accession  to  the  throne,  and  the  room  numbered 
seventeen,  which  Dickens  is  said  to  have  slept  in  more 
than  once,  and  which  contains  the  cheval  glass  that 
used  to  stand  in  his  bedroom  at  Gadshill  Place. 

For  all  I  knew  to  the  contrary,  Mr.  Fairfield  might 


A  DANCE  AT  THE  BULL        373 

have  paid  the  ballroom  many  furtive  visits  during  our 
sojourn,  but,  after  the  first  day,  it  had  ceased  to  figure 
in  his  conversation.  On  our  last  evening,  however,  it 
had  come  to  the  front  once  more.  We  were  mounting 
the  main  staircase  and  had  almost  reached  the  corridor, 
when  we  heard  dance  music  proceeding  from  some  room 
near  at  hand.  My  companion  stopped  dead  for  a 
moment,  to  make  sure  whence  the  sound  came ;  and 
then  with  a  whistle  of  astonishment,  he  dashed  up  the 
few  remaining  stairs  and  made  towards  the  ballroom 
door. 

"What's  going  on,  Charles?  "he  demanded  of  an 
under-waiter,  who  was  loitering  about  the  passage. 

"  Large  private  party  from  London,  sir ;  been  spend- 
ing the  day  here.  Finishin'  off  with  a  dance  before 
they  go  back." 

"  Well,  this  is  luck !  "  he  said,  as  soon  as  the  youth 
had  faded  away.  "  I  never  thought  of  that  old  room 
being  used  for  dancing  nowadays — and  to  think  of  our 
being  here  just  at  the  right  time !  " 

It  was  a  merry  party  in  the  room  that  night.  The 
music  was  so  brisk  that  it  set  our  feet  a-tapping  as  we 
stood  and  listened,  and  above  the  music  and  the  move- 
ment of  the  dance,  there  rose  now  and  again  a  sound 
of  happy  laughter. 

Mr.  Fairfield  was  in  high  feather.  "  Bless  the  boys 
and  girls !  "  he  exclaimed ;  "  I'm  glad  they're  having  a 
good  time  in  the  old  room." 

"  You'd  like  to  join  them?  " 

I  threw  this  out  in  mere  playfulness,  and  he  met  it 
with  a  laugh ;  but  on  second  thoughts  he  seemed  to  find 
it  worth  considering.  He  stood  pondering  over  it,  chin 
in  hand. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  shouldn't  care  to  join  them,  even 
if  they  wanted  me.  I  say  '  if,'  you  observe.  And  be- 
sides, it  wouldn't  be  seemly  for  me  to  be  cutting  capers 
to  a  barn-dance  thing  like  that.  If  I  dance,  it  must  be 
to  'the  very  genteelest  of  tunes — "Water  parted"  or 


374    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

the  minuet  in  Ariadne '."  His  gravity  had  all  vanished, 
and  he  brought  out  the  quotation  with  his  usual  keen 
relish.  "  '  Water  parted '  was  a  song  of  Dr.  Arne's. 
It  was  a  favourite  of  Charles  Lamb's ;  he  used  to  hear 
it  in  the  Temple  when  he  was  a  child.  And  he  heard 
it  sung  in  his  First  Play." 

The  dance  had  come  to  an  end  by  this  time.  "  We've 
no  business  to  be  eavesdropping  here,"  he  said ;  and  he 
turned  away  to  make  good  his  words.  But  at  that 
moment  the  piano  struck  up  the  prelude  to  "  The  Miller 
and  the  Maid,"  and  he  wheeled  round  to  listen.  When 
the  last  verse  was  reached,  he  followed  the  girl's  voice 
with  a  low  murmur  of  his  own,  just  audible  to  me,  who 
stood  beside  him : — 

"  And  it's  now  you  know  it  all,"  he  said, 

"  So  bless  you  dear,  and  go." — 
"  Oh  !  miller,  miller,  wait  a  bit, 

I  need  not  hurry  so, 
If  you've  something  more  to  tell  me, 

You  can  tell  me  as  we  go." 
And  he'd  nothing  left  to  tell  her, 

Yet  he  told  it  her,  I  know, 

For  one  never  tires  of  telling, 

"  Oh  sweetheart,  I  love  you  so  !  " 

"  Now  the  boys  are  finding  their  partners,"  he 
said,  when  through  the  door  we  heard  a  sound  of  talk 
and  movement  "  It  makes  one  think  of  old  days. 
Well,  well,  we  can't  put  the  clock  back  five-and-thirty 
years ;  and  I  don't  know  that  one  would,  if  one  could. 
We  won't  be  envious  of  the  boys — perhaps  it's  as  well, 
though,  we  can't  see  them ;  it  might  make  us  lachry- 
mose. 

For  they  are  lusty  and  gay  and  trimmed, 
And  we  are  rusty  and  heavy-limbed, 
And  'tis  with  eyes  with  a  tear  bedimmed, 
We  watch  the  boys  go  wooing." 

And  warbling  the  last  line  in  high  good-humour  with 
himself,  he  took  my  arm  and  we  passed  into  the  corridor. 


THE  ROCHESTER  COACH        375 

"  We  hail  the  vine,  that  once  the  myrtle  knew," 
he  exclaimed  with  bacchanalian  fervour,  as  he  caught 
sight  of  the  under-waiter.    "  At  our  time  of  life  a  tankard 
is  the  thing  to  warm  the  heart — 

And  that  I  think's  a  reason  fair,  to  fill  my  glass  again. 

I  go  with  Captain  Morris  in  these  matters.     Charles ! — 
my  friend  and  I  are  quite  ready  for  our  soda-water." 

ENVOY 

THE  ROCHESTER  COACH 
(1830) 

Well  on  our  way,  in  the  fresh  of  the  morn, 
Over  Blackheath,  and  in  sight  of  the  corn  : 
Peter  the  guard  gives  a  rouse  on  his  horn — 

Peter  is  stalwart  and  merry  ! 
Breasting  the  Hill,  with  a  pause  at  the  top  ; 
Dashing  to  Welling  with  never  a  stop, 
Stretching  away  for  the  land  of  the  hop, 

White  with  the  bloom  of  the  cherry. 

Sunbeams  at  play  upon  collar  and  bar — 

Yo-ho! 
Horses  at  work  like  the  Trojans  they  are — 

Yo-ho!  Yo-ho-o! 

Red-coated  George  with  the  team  on  his  mind, 
Red-coated  Peter  a-chatter  behind, 
Rounding  his  talk  with  a  musical  wind — 

Yo-ho-hi-ho-ho-o !  Tan-tiv-y ! 

Changing  at  Dartford  :  and  time  for  a  snap  ! 
Trim  little  damsel  in  pinner  and  cap ; 
Peter  is  ready  to  vouch  for  the  tap — 

Calls  for  a  measure  and  drains  it. 
Chestnut  and  roans  and  a  flea-bitten  grey, 
All  in  a  fidget  to  gallop  away, 
Tossing  and  stamping — "  As  good  as  a  play  !  " 

Peter  asserts  and  maintains  it. 

Off  to  the  horn  in  a  spatter  of  rain — 

Yo-ho ! 
Bowling  along  in  the  sunshine,  again — 

Yo-ho !  Yo-ho-o  ! 

"  Now  it'll  last  for  the  rest  o'  the  day  ! 
Pride  o'  the  mornin',  and  welcome,  I  say  : 
Hasn't  it  brought  out  the  smell  o'  the  may  ? " — 

Yo-ho-hi-ho-ho-o !  Tan-tiv-y ! 


376    RAMBLES  WITH  AN  AMERICAN 

Gravesend  behind  us ;  the  marshes  are  bare — 
"  Snug  little  cargoes  they  run  over  there  ; 
Farmers  in  league  with  'em  ;  all  playing  fair  "  ; 

This  is  how  Peter  discourses. 
Passing  the  toll-house,  and  passing  the  mill ; 
Passing  the  cedars  on  top  of  Gadshill ; 
Peter  is  playing  his  horn  with  a  will ; 

George  is  intent  on  his  horses. 

"  Steady  my  beauties !  "  he's  holding  'em  fast — 

Yo-ho  ! 
Nursing  'em  up  for  the  gallop  at  last — 

Yo-ho!  Yo-ho-o! 

Done  with  the  gallop,  and  back  to  the  pull ; 
Crossing  the  bridge,  where  the  river  is  full ; 
Landing  us  safe  in  the  yard  of  the  Bull — 

Yo-ho-hi-ho-hi-ho-ho-ho-o  !  Tan-tiv-y  ! 


ABERDEEN  :    THE    UNIVERSITY    PRESS 


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